


Remains

by Death_Shapeshifter, notjustalittlegirl



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Angst, Awkward Flirting, Canon-Typical Violence, Consensual Underage Sex, Developing Relationship, F/F, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, It's Panem of course there's propaganda, Jealousy, M/M, Mentor/Protégé, Mentors, Multi, Nightmares, Non-Explicit Sex, Possibly Unrequited Love, Propaganda, Ratings/Warnings/Tags Will Be Updated, Recreational Drug Use, Swearing, There will be more relationship tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-04 09:37:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 28,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11552445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Death_Shapeshifter/pseuds/Death_Shapeshifter, https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustalittlegirl/pseuds/notjustalittlegirl
Summary: To demonstrate that one's duty to the capitol cannot be taken on by another, no volunteers will be allowed in the 125th Hunger Games.The characters from The 100 are reaped for the 125th Annual Hunger Games.





	1. Where Do We Go From Here?

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I'm a jerk and decided to write a Hunger Games AU for the 100 characters.  
> I don't own the Hunger Games, or the 100. This is purely for entertainment purposes, don't sue me. 
> 
> Also, please do not be mean in the comments.

_To demonstrate that one’s duty to the capitol cannot be taken on by another, no volunteers will be allowed in the 125th Hunger Games._

This ominous statement, made months ago via the reading of the Quell Card, lingered like an anvil in the back of Lexa’s mind as she stood in the crowd, pressed up against at least four other eighteen year olds from District 1. The constant reminder that this was it did nothing to calm Lexa’s already frayed nerves as she watched the escort take the stage and wobble on her high heels to stand in front of the glass bowl, where some of the slips had _Lexa Woods_ printed on them. Not enough slips.

Age was a curse in District 1, especially this year. This year would have been Lexa’s last chance to volunteer, to bring glory to herself and to her district. To find vengeance for Costia, who the games had claimed several years ago, volunteering to save Lexa.

Lexa had never been in any real danger, there would always be someone willing to volunteer in District One, and Costia’s grand romantic gesture to the girl she loved had cost her her life.

Lexa needed to win the games. For Costia.

She would have been picked to volunteer this year, she knew it. She was the best her district had to offer. But there were to be no volunteers, not this time.

“Welcome, welcome!” The escort, a toothpick-thin woman whose name might have been Julia, had blue hair done up in a beehive style, and her heels were high enough to make Lexa’s feet hurt just from looking at them.

“Welcome to the 125th Annual Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favour! As usual, ladies first!”

Julia fished around in the fishbowl, and Lexa’s fingers fisted in the fabric of her dark black dress as she tried to steel herself against the inevitable disappointment of hearing someone else’s name called and losing her one last chance to avenge Costia.

“Lexa Woods!”

She thought, at first, that she had misheard. There was no way she could be that lucky. 

But then the girls surrounding her nudged her forward, their faces lined with the same disappointment she had been anticipating for herself, and she walked towards the stage that held the beginnings of her glory with her head held high and dress swishing through the crowd, realizing that this wasn’t a dream, and she was really going into the Hunger Games, volunteering be damned.

Through the slight buzzing in her ears, Lexa could vaguely hear the crowd chanting her name louder and louder. As she took her final steps up the stairs and onto the stage, minding her footing so as not to trip and mark herself out as a weakling, she saw Anya looking at her.

The victor of the 115th Hunger Games who had taken a special interest in Lexa as soon as she started training and taught her everything she knew was smiling proudly, and Lexa knew that Anya had been hoping for this as much as she herself had.

It was a chance to show all Panem what they were made of.

“Let’s do this,”  Anya mouthed, and Lexa grinned back at her, ready to hear who her first ally, aside from her mentor, would be.

“And now, for the boys.”

Julia grabbed the first slip her hand landed on and read it. “Aden Woods!”

Lexa’s heart nearly stopped, and the grin briefly slipped from her face.

Her little cousin Aden was only twelve, and had just barely started his training two months ago. He was good, excellent, for his age, but all his natural skill would be nothing when compared to brutes from Two and Four, who would be at least double his size, strength, and training.

Lexa quickly pasted her smile back onto her face before anyone could notice it slipped, heart pounding as her cousin came to join her onstage.

For Lexa to win, Aden would have to die. The thought slammed into her lick a ton of bricks, and suddenly, she didn’t feel so relieved to have been picked anymore. No matter how this ended, she would be responsible in some way for what happened to her little cousin.

Aden made his way through the crowd, which was chanting his name the same way they’d chanted Lexa’s only moments ago, despite their knowledge that he had no chance. For all the names District One got called by the other districts, heartless could never be one of them. He was trembling slightly, but it was so minor that the cameras wouldn’t even be able to register it. She couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride for her cousin as he joined her on stage.

When the two shook hands, she gripped his tightly, trying to tell him without words how very sorry she was.

* * *

 “Echo Teles!”

From his place in the crowd, Roan saw Echo smile, a smile that he was more than familiar with. That smile may have been able to pass as a gracious acceptance of victory against  the poor girls who hadn’t gotten picked, especially those eighteen year olds who would never get their chance to bring glory to District Two, but Roan knew better than anyone what Echo’s smile meant.

That smile was the smile she wore whenever she knocked a trainer or an opponent to ground, whenever they yielded to her. That was the smile she wore as she hacked dummies to pieces in a matter of seconds. He’d seen that smile often enough during training.

The smile Echo was wearing was the smile of someone who was ready to murder anything that stood in her path.

He smiled himself, knowing that Echo would bring victory to District Two. She was his friend, as much as anyone could be friends with anyone in their district, and he thought he could see her smile point directly at him from the stage.

Echo only got a brief moment in the spotlight before District Two’s escort was reaching for the other glass ball, and Roan wondered which poor boy would be unlucky enough to have Echo as an opponent.

“Roan Azgeda!” A grin split Roan’s face, similar to the grin that had just slid off Echo’s with the pronouncement of his name. Well, that was a pleasant surprise. Unexpected, since he had never taken a tessera in his life, but pleasant.

As he mounted the stage and shook Echo’s hand, he felt the worry in her movements, and saw it in her eyes. Of all the boys, and girls, she’d ever trained against, Roan was the only one who had ever beaten her.

District Two would have a victor alright. But it would be him.

* * *

 “Raven Reyes!”

_Raven Reyes. Me. Fucking hell._

Raven wasn’t as terrified to go into the Hunger Games as one would expect from a District Three girl. It wasn’t as if she had much of a life, just an absentee mother and a dead-end job working in a repair shop that she knew was far below her skill level. Another tessera to take out so she could survive the year.

Still, it wasn’t as Raven wanted to die. Especially not before she fixed that damn TV that the mayor had pawned off on her boss’s shop. That thing could fetch a damn good price. If anyone in the district besides the mayor actually had the money to pay for it.

The walk through the crowd in the main square seemed to take forever. She passed person after person who she must have known at one point in her life, but none of their faces registered. Except for one, up on the stage. Her boss, Sinclair, a former victor of the Hunger Games who had gotten bored with his endless money and decided to open a shop, hiring a fourteen year old Raven as one of his first employees. He always gave her the hardest jobs, knowing how frustrated she was that there was nothing more challenging to fix in his shop, but also knowing that not many others would be willing to hire her, best mechanic in her class or not.

Sinclair was looking at her intently, face swimming with a mixture of horror and something deeper she couldn’t quite identify. She watched him as she mounted the stairs, and saw him turn to whisper something into another’s victor’s ear. Then they both turned back to look at her.

In middle of the crowd, Monty Green watched the girl, Raven, standing still as a statue on the stage. Once upon a time they had known each other, before Raven’s mother forced her to drop out of school and she had gone under the radar. Last he had heard, she’d been fixing televisions. The one thing he remembered about Raven Reyes from their school days was that she was the one person who could consistently match, or even beat, his scores on tests, and that she could fix any machine you set in front of her.

Long story short, Reyes was smarter than any other girl they could’ve picked to go into the games instead of her.  

She could win the games if she worked as hard at them as she did at everything else in her life.

“Monty Green!”

Monty had been so intent on sizing up Raven’s chances in the Games that he almost missed his name. He swallowed, almost unable to believe what was happening, and started the walk to join Raven on stage.

Just my fucking luck. Not only do I have to go in, but I’m going against the smartest girl in this entire district.

Through the crowd, he could hear his mother’s screams, and they hurt him almost as much as the knowledge that he had about a month left to live scared him.

He trudged up the stairs and shook Raven Reyes’s hand in the traditional show of goodwill between district partners. Her eyes were unreadable, but Monty thought he could detect a small trace of fear behind the pupils.

Her gaze was intense, and directed entirely at him. When her hand squeezed his, and she gave him a slight smile, Monty knew that there would be at least one person in the arena who wouldn’t try to kill him.

* * *

 “Luna Flokru!”  

Sighs of both relief and extreme disappointment could be heard from all corners of the assembled crowd. Luna thought that, to the bloodthirsty people of District Four, the groans that proclaimed just how unhappy they were with their female tribute this Quell were more appropriate than the cheers. The groans came from the people that knew she would rather be slaughtered at the cornucopia than lay a sword on anyone ever again.  

The happy gasps came from those who only knew the old Luna. The Luna who was so ruthless that she had killed her own brother during a simple training game. Those who knew the old Luna knew she would do whatever it took to win, just as a good Career should. The few who knew the new Luna, the Luna who hadn’t touched a weapon since she had looked down at Derrick’s body, covered with blood that still leaked from the multiple wounds in his body as the steady rise and fall of his chest had stopped, they were the ones who knew that Luna would bring them no glory.

The moment she stepped one bare foot onto the stage, the crowd quieted. The escort crossed the stage to the other bowl, and dug around until she found a slip of paper that suited her fancy.

“Riley Sullivan!”

Luna almost laughed at the ridiculousness of it all. District Four would be nothing this year, with a pathetic combination of the Career who wouldn’t kill and the boy that had been taken out of training at age thirteen because a mental evaluation had found him psychotic and dangerous, likely to pose a threat to his own safety and that of others.

Even though they had praised Luna’s determination and fighting spirit after she had killed  her brother, it wasn’t like they wanted that to become a regular thing.

Riley was mad. The look in his eyes as he shook Luna’s hand confirmed it.

Maybe that was a good thing. It wasn’t like District Four deserved glory anyway.

* * *

 John Murphy heard his name called by the dyed-blonde woman on the stage, and his immediate thought was a barrage of every swear word that had ever existed within the confines of District Five.

This could not be happening. There was no way he was going into the Hunger Games. A yell was on the tip of his tongue, but before he could let it loose he remembered the tributes who had gone before him. Those who looked weak at their reapings never lasted beyond a few days.

Besides, his father’s voice spoke inside his head.You’re a survivor, John. You’re a fighter.

 As he walked to the stage, he focused on the sort-of-pretty face of his best (read: only) friend, Zoe Monroe. This year’s female tribute from District Five. Well, if he was going in, it was good that he at least had an ally to begin with, even if they were both likely going to die horrible and bloody deaths.

Of course, the miniscule bit of gladness he felt at the fact that he would have an ally wasn’t stopping him from wishing both himself and Monroe were back in the crowd, safe for another year to take out tessera, which was their only means of survival in a dismal world. He wished that they were in the crowd, and two of the privileged kids who had never tasted the bland tessera grain in their lives were up on this stage, finally gaining some knowledge of how it felt to be truly afraid instead of eating cake.

“Fuck this shit,” Murphy whispered into Monroe’s ear, and gave her the first hug that either of them had given in years.

Well, one way or another, he would never be the pathetic orphan John Murphy again

* * *

 Maya was crying on the stage, ugly tears that dripped down her nose and into their mingled hair. Jasper would never have described anything about Maya as ugly, but these tears certainly fit the bill.

Jasper wasn’t crying, not yet, but he felt as if every sob from Maya an arrow that was tearing him further and further away from the happy life they’d had only ten minutes ago. Instead of shaking her hand, as was the custom, Jasper had pulled his girlfriend into his arms and given her a passionate kiss, the last one that they would ever share in District Six.

It just wasn’t fair.

Jasper knew that he would die to save Maya in a heartbeat, that wasn’t even a question, but that didn’t mean he didn’t doubt his ability to keep her alive until the final few. Or to keep himself alive to keep her alive.

He tried to tell Maya to stop crying, that it would be easier for them to get off to a good start in the games if they seemed strong, but he was shaking so hard as he held her, his throat closing around the words he wanted to say.

Maya tried to hold onto him as the peacekeepers came to drag them to their seperate rooms where they would say goodbye to their families, and that was what finally set off Jasper’s tears.

* * *

 When she heard her name, Ontari’s face split into a grin wider than the hips of the woman who had called it. A grin like hers would seem strange on the face of a tribute from District Seven, but those who counted her district as one with no chance to win had never met Ontari, or seen the way she practiced hacking things to pieces with the axes her family members used for their daily work. Axes she had been training with since she could walk.

Those who saw the sixteen year old throwing around axes would have typically considered it normal, another girl training for a life chopping apart trees. They would have walked on past, not knowing that the life of another beaten down lumberjack was not what Ontari had planned for her future.

And her new life started the second she got picked for the Hunger Games. Two years earlier than she had planned, but nonetheless she was ready. She was barely able to conceal a brutal laugh as she caught Nia’s eye. The former victor was the only one who knew of Ontari’s plans, and had agreed to help her. They shared a look that meant one thing: the Hunger Games didn’t know what was coming into their arena.

“Lincoln Trikru.”

Lincoln had caught the glimmer in Ontari’s eyes as she mounted the stage, and knew that the same confidence and, for lack of a better word, barely concealed brutality, was far from present in his gait as he walked the same path. He had heard rumors about Ontari, the District Seven girl who didn’t fear the games, who looked forward to each reaping hoping her name would be called. He had seen her, on his way home from school, cutting apart sawdust filled dummies in her backyard as if she were some sort of Career.

And now she was his district partner.

No one else in the Hunger Games knew what Ontari was capable of. Lincoln did. As they shook hands, he realized that he was going to have to be the one to take her out, before she could murder a child or an innocent

* * *

 “Clarke Griffin.” Clarke could hear her mother yell over the crowd’s quiet murmuring, even above the roaring of blood in her own ears. She could see her mother trying to push her way through the crowd, as if she could somehow rescue her only child from the all-consuming inferno of the Hunger Games. Clarke wished that her mother would stop. Abby’s tears would only bring on Clarke’s.

Clarke was a member of the privileged society of District Eight, and had never expected to be chosen for the Games. She had thought she was safe, or as safe as one could be against the reaping.

No one is safe. Clarke’s father’s words to her before the bullet had fired into his skull echoed in her mind like the sound of the bullet itself. Jake Griffin had been executed for discovering and trying to reveal to the public a flaw in the system keeping track of tessera. Clarke had believed him, but she never thought the system was so flawed that she’dbe chosen. She, who had never taken a tessera in her life. She, who was practically family to Mayor Jaha.

Mayor Jaha beckoned Clarke up the stairs and gave her a regretful look. She tried to calm the roaring in her ears and block out her mother’s screaming in order to hear who her district partner would be.

“Wells Jaha.”

Wells’s father’s roar of horror almost eclipsed that of Clarke’s mother. Peacekeepers were instantly on the stage, wrapping their arms around the mayor just in case he decided to try something drastic. Wells knew better. His father had too much respect for the rules of the Games. He wouldn’t try to break them, not even on the practically-zero chance of saving his child from almost certain death.

He tried to conceal his limp as he climbed the stairs to stand beside his former best friend on the stairs, but Clarke’s steely look in his direction distracted him so much that he almost tripped on his fake leg.

When he reached out to shake her hand, her hand stayed firmly planted at her side, drawing confused murmurs from the crowd, who had never before seen a tribute refuse to shake their district partner’s hand.

Clarke’s rejection didn’t matter to Wells. She would probably be glad for the chance to kill him, but that didn’t matter. He would protect her anyway.

* * *

 “Emori d’Olivera.”

Emori walked towards the stage quickly, head held as high as it could be, what with the unthinkable event that had just occured. She had seen what the Hunger Games could do, ever since her brother Otan had died in them two years previously, run through by that year’s winner, a smug bitch called Alie who had laughed as thirteen year old Emori had screamed and hit the television, praying to every deity she could think of that it was broken and that she hadn’t just seen her twin brother hacked to pieces.

 Sure, Emori wanted justice for Otan. What sister wouldn’t? But there were better ways to get it than by going into the Games and becoming just another tribute bending to the Capitol’s whims. Unfortunately for her, there was no other way to get it now. Except for the small fact that she was probably fucked, with no chance beyond the fact that two years on the streets had made her more cunning than most could hope to become in a lifetime.

“Ilian Trishanakru.”

Emori had only met her district partner once or twice, but the name matched with a face before she even saw him approaching the stage to join her. He was in the same year as her in school, but Ilian had always kept to himself, only speaking when spoken to and preferring to sit at a table in the corner and eat alone, when he ate at all.

Therefore, she knew nothing about him except what all of District Nine knew: that he had accidentally killed his father and mother in a thresher accident, and then retreated to the fringes of society, living alone on his family’s farm and hiding whenever anyone came around to try and take him to one of the community homes that he and she both knew didn’t want him.

Loath as she was to make conclusions about someone else’s feelings, Emori thought she might have seen something in Ilian’s eyes that spoke of relief.

* * *

 When Harper’s name was plucked casually from the Reaping bowl as one might pick a dead fly off the back of one of the cows that mooed everywhere in District Ten, her friend Fox gave her the largest hug the girls had ever shared, which was saying quite a bit. Fox’s thin arms wrapped around Harper with a strength the bigger girl hadn’t known her petite friend still possessed, and all the arguments they’d ever had, all the boys they’d ever fought over, everything that had tried to tear their friendship apart over the years disappeared.

The only two girls in the District Ten community home, Fox and Harper had always been different. Harper was calm where Fox preferred to drink herself wild. Fox loved science while Harper preferred history. Fox had been an orphan her whole life while Harper had only come to the community home when she was nine.

That hadn’t stopped them from becoming the closest of friends.

The hug they shared lasted only as long as it took for the escort to call Harper’s name again and, while Harper knew her friend would come to say goodbye to her during the brief time allowed for such things, she couldn’t help but feel as if the hug would be their last.         

“I love you, Fox.”

“Win, Harper. Come home.”

Disentangling herself from Fox’s arms was one of the hardest things Harper had ever done, especially since she knew that they would probably never share a room again, or whisper under the covers about their day at school, or choke down the glop that their home called food.

“And now, for the boys. Nathan Miller!”

Nate’s first thought was of Bryan.

His boyfriend was all the way across the crowd, standing as far away from Nate as possible due to their nasty fight yesterday, which he was genuinely worried had been a breakup in disguise. He was too far for Nate to shove his way through the crowd and kiss him fiercely, and all he could do was walk towards the stage to join Harper and hope that Bryan still loved him enough to come and say goodbye.

The thought that he might not was more terrifying than the fact that he had just been chosen to fight to death in the Hunger Games.

* * *

Finn Collins stood in the huge crowd of District 11 children, surrounded by those whose names he didn’t know and might never find out. The only thing he knew about the girl on stage was her name- Charlotte- but that didn’t stop him from seeing how afraid she was. She was only thirteen. She was the only reason her younger siblings were alive. It wasn’t fair.  

“Finn Collins.” John was barely able to process the two words that made up his name, but the murmurs in the crowd said enough. What’s a boy like that doing getting picked?

Finn’s family, while far from rich, was one of the few families in 11 that didn’t go to bed hungry every night. The only work Finn had ever had to do involved ducking around the peacekeepers who were out for his head due to all the things he stole to make his daily life more interesting and to hand out to the beggar kids he passed on his way to school each morning.

He hugged his friend Sterling as hard as he could before beginning the walk through the crowd to the stage. Finn didn’t say anything to his friend, but he knew that Sterling could tell exactly what he was thinking:  It’s better that it’s me. Better me than another little kid whose family needs them.

Finn shook little Charlotte’s hand, willing her to stand up straight and stop the trembling of her lip. She’d have no chance if she didn’t look brave.

* * *

 When Bellamy Blake heard his little sister’s name, called by the fat Capitol woman in the purple wig she was trying to convince everyone was her real hair, he couldn’t breathe. His mind was reeling in disbelief. _Not Octavia. They can’t have Octavia. THEY CAN’T HAVE HER!_  

Bellamy and Octavia had been on their own ever since their parents had been killed in the mine explosion. Bellamy’d kept them out of sight and out of the community home, and had protected Octavia ever since he’d turned sixteen. That had been two years ago. Two years of living on the fringes of society, of having no one but each other.

His eyes found Octavia, bravely walking to the stage, head held high. Just like O, to never let anyone see that she was afraid. His instincts taking over control from his brain, Bellamy began pushing his way forward, determined to snatch his little sister and make an ill-advised run for it. Gina must have been able to guess exactly what Bellamy was thinking, because she grabbed her best friend’s arm just stongly enough that he wouldn’t be able to move forward without pushing her off him and into the crowd. That wouldn’t be an easy feat. Gina was far stronger than she looked, stronger than any malnourished girl should be. “Bell, O’s strong, as strong as any of those Career assholes. She’ll be alright, she’ll come back to you!”

“Let me go, Gina!” Bellamy tried to escape his friend’s grasp, tears pricking at his eyes. They can’t have Octavia!

Octavia was glaring at the crowd, defiance and refusal to be afraid evident in her face. Then Bellamy heard his own name.

Oh thank God. I can protect her. I’ll get her out. I’ll make sure she comes home. I’m not scared.

He was.

Gina clapped Bellamy on the back, giving him a mournful look telling him what she’d never say aloud: I’ll miss you, Bellamy.

Gina, at least, knew that Bellamy Blake wouldn’t be coming home as long as Octavia Blake lived.

Bellamy almost missed Octavia’s yelling as he climbed the stairs, but he felt it when she launched herself at him and hugged him tightly. _I’m going to get you out, O. You’re going to live._


	2. Doors Closed, Eyes Open

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tributes begin their train journey to the Capitol.

Lexa didn’t fanatically love the Capitol, not like many in her District did, but she had to admit that they did a damn good job assembling the footage from the Reapings fast enough for the tributes to watch on their way out of their districts.

As the train sped her along towards the Capitol and the start of the Games, she sat on the sofa in front of the screen with a full glass of red wine in her hand, in between Anya and Aden, as they watched to see who Lexa’s allies and competition would be.

She ignored District One. The only thing to see there was herself and Aden, composed and proud but less giddy, perhaps, than other District One tributes had been in the past. So, while she listened to Julia’s voice, no less grating through the screen than in real life, Lexa watched Aden out of the corner of her eyes.

She had to give the kid credit: even when they had reached the safety of the train, he hadn’t started crying, or betrayed any sort of emotion at all, just like a good tribute should. She had seen the glitter of his eyes that had told her tears were lingering right underneath the surface, but had decided to ignore it until they were somewhere more private, away from Anya and Titus and Julia, and she could properly comfort him, make sure he knew that she was there for him.

Even so, she handed him her glass of wine and let him take a gulp, almost laughing when he made a face at the bitter taste that she ignored in favor of the numbing feeling of the alcohol.

District Two, Lexa's strongest allies and greatest competition, held no surprises. A girl with a brutal look in her eyes, and a hulking boy who looked as if he could snap someone in half with his bare hands. Typical. She couldn’t tell much about the tributes from District Four just based on their looks, but the disappointed sighs of the crowd told her that the career pack might be a bit smaller this year. There was nothing interesting, not until the reapings reached District Six.

The two tributes, a boyfriend and girlfriend it seemed, were both crying. The girl, Maya’s, sobs seemed to set off the boy, Jasper’s. Lexa couldn’t find it in herself to laugh at them and label them as easy marks as Anya did, even though they would be, in all likelihood, some of the first ones to die in the arena. Maybe by her hands. All she could find in her heart for Maya and Jasper was pity. 

The next tribute that caught Lexa’s attention was the female tribute from District Eight. Blonde, with clothes that demonstrated her wealth and station in her district. She could hear her mother screaming her name- Clarke- and had to admit that she was impressed at how composed she was in the face of her mother’s horrible screams. Not only that, but something in the way Clarke refused to shake her district partner’s hand- there was definite history there- caught Lexa’s attention and wouldn’t let go. Even when two siblings were called from District Twelve, something that was almost unheard of and was sure to break hearts both in the districts and the Capitol, Lexa’s mind remained fixed on Clarke, and her small show of defiance, intentional or not. 

When the television turned off, Lexa stretched and downed the rest of her wine, before placing her hand on Aden’s shoulder, the thought of her fellow tributes- the people she would have to _kill-_ almost driving the less-than-small matter of comforting her cousin from her mind.

Anya gave Lexa a look that she couldn’t discern as she led Aden away to their rooms.

* * *

Sinclair’s calloused hand was steady on Raven’s shoulder, guiding her through the crowd onto the train. His other hand was on her district partner, Monty’s, shoulder. The woman who was her mentor lagged behind, making no move to guide Raven to the train herself and instead leaving it to Sinclair to take both the teenagers away from District Three himself. 

Raven couldn’t say she minded. Sinclair was one of the few people who had ever given the impression of caring for her at all, and his hand on her shoulder was more comforting than some stranger’s.

The train doors whoosed closed behind Raven, Monty and their small entourage, and the woman who was meant to be Raven’s mentor disappeared along with their escort, leaving her and Monty alone with Sinclair.

He turned to face the two tributes, who gave each other an apprehensive look at the serious one neither had seen on Sinclair’s face before. Granted, they hadn’t been in any situation like this before.

“Monty,” he said, turning to Raven’s district partner. “Would you go to your room, please, so I can have a word with Raven in private? I’ll come collect you in a few minutes so we can have a conversation.”

Monty obeyed without question, making Raven feel a swell of fondness for him along with the strange apprehension and wonder at what Sinclair could possibly have to say to her that Monty couldn’t hear. Once he was out of sight and Sinclair had heard a door closing, signalling that Monty had found his room, he turned back to Raven and led her to sit on the most comfortable couch that she had ever felt beneath her.

Even though the couch was practically begging her to melt into it, Raven remained seated upright, on edge, ready to hear what Sinclair had to tell her. Not instantly ignoring everything in favor of the couch became easier when Raven realized, with a swell of anger, that people in the Capitol sat on luxury items like this every day while she starved. Sinclair's voice interrupted Raven's thoughts.

 “I’m going to mentor you, not Callie.”

He didn’t beat around the bush, give her some drawn out spiel before telling her what he really wanted to say. That had always been one of the things Raven had liked most about Sinclair, and he didn’t disappoint now.

“Why?”

“ _Why?”_ Sinclair’s voice rose up in annoyance and disbelief. “Christ, Reyes, I thought you were smarter than that! Why am I going to mentor you? Because you’re the smartest damn person this district has ever produced, and you have a hell of a good chance of making it home alive if you’re willing to cooperate and listen to what I have to say! Callie doesn’t know you like I do, she doesn’t know how your brain works! I’m mentoring you because I don’t trust anyone else to!”

Raven was about to point out that there was no way Sinclair could know how her brain worked, but thought better of it when she took a moment to take in the rest of what he had said. If she got nothing else from his speech, it was clear that her mentor believed in what she could do more than anyone before him had.

“Thank you, Sinclair,” she said, and gave him a small smile that he returned in full force.

“You’re welcome, Reyes. Now go get some rest, and we’ll watch the reapings later. Oh, and send Monty out here, would you?”

Raven nodded and started down the hallway towards the bedrooms, stopping when she saw a light on behind one of the doors and hoping that the room was Monty’s instead of Callie’s or their escort's. Pushing it open, she found her district partner lying on his back on the bed, eyes closed and a relaxed expression on his face, with a roll of paper between his lips, smoking what had to be some sort of drug, probably the same one inside the plastic baggie on the side table. Raven's biggest question was how the hell had he found a lighter in this place?

His eyes flew open at the sound of Raven entering the room, and he scrambled to hide the baggie before realizing that it was too late, she had already seen both the baggie and him.

His shoulders deflated and he looked at her with a pleading expression, not bothering to extinguish his makeshift joint.

“Please don’t tell Sinclair. He wouldn't like it.”

Raven almost rolled her eyes. They were being driven across the country to what was essentially a giant gladiator games, and Monty thought Raven was going to tattle on him for smoking a damn joint? Christ.

“Nah,” she said, giving Monty a smile. “Don’t worry. I’m not a snitch. But you’d better put it out, since Sinclair wants to talk to you now.”

Monty nodded in relief, and Raven walked further down the hallway to the first empty bedroom she came across. Only when she fell down on a mattress that was softer than the couch did she realize how tired she was. She felt as if she were sinking into the mattress, and was asleep within moments. 

* * *

Miller had managed to hold back his tears until he was out of sight of any cameras, but the moment the train doors closed behind him he was sprinting for a bedroom, any bedroom, where he could finally cry out his feelings over the day’s events.

He collapsed face first onto the bed and buried his face into the soft down pillow that he pulled against his chest. The tears started flowing, and once they started they escalated into full-blown sobs that he was sure could be heard throughout the train.

The thing that the others on the train didn’t know: Miller's crying wasn’t just fear at being chosen for the games, although that certainly did nothing to improve matters. No, this was heartbreak.

Bryan hadn’t come.

After hugging his father goodbye, promising to try and come home to him, Miller had sat by the door for minutes that felt like hours, hoping that the door would open and Bryan would come in and hold him close, tell him that he loved him and would be waiting for him to come home. When the peacekeepers had come to bring him to the train, he had almost begged them for more time, to wait just a few more minutes, before it sunk in that if Bryan hadn’t come already he wasn’t coming at all.

He was nothing, _nothing,_ to the boy he loved with his entire heart.

A knock on the door startled Miller, and a new barrage of tears started their tracks down his face. The person at the door knocked again, but Miller didn’t bother to answer either way. Besides, he figured, it was probably Harper come to talk to him about the day’s events, or maybe to try and comfort the tears that everyone could hear.

She seemed like a nice girl. He would apologize to her later and then they would talk about whatever the hell she wanted to talk about. Probably being allies in the arena, or at least not trying to kill each other directly. But, for now, he wanted her to go the hell away. 

"Please leave me alone," he choked out.

Miller was surprised when, instead of hearing retreating footsteps down the hall, he felt a hand on the small of his back. He jumped, and his face lifted out of the pillow to reveal the mess of tears that he was. He hadn’t even heard the door open.

Instead of Harper, as he had expected, Miller looked up to find his mentor.

Eric Jackson was young, only a few years older than Miller, and a recent victor. His hair was pushed back onto the top of his head, and his hand, not as dark as Miller’s own, rubbed soothingly up and down his back.

Suddenly embarrassed, Miller tried to stop crying, but the tears just kept coming as he remembered Bryan’s face. The last time he had seen, or ever would see, it, the beautiful man’s features had been twisted up in hatred, directed towards him. Bryan must really hate him to not even say goodbye.

To Jackson’s credit, he didn’t bother asking Miller what was wrong until the flow of tears had slowed down, and Miller was surprised that he didn’t try to shake off Jackson’s hand as it traveled up and down his back in a comforting motion.

“S-Sorry,” Miller managed to gasp out, but Jackson just shook his head.

“There’s nothing to apologize for, Nathan. This cannot be easy. God knows I did the same thing when I got picked.”

Ah. So Jackson had drawn the logical conclusion: that Miller’s tears were because of being picked for the Hunger Games. It would just be simpler to let him keep on believing that, and not even bring up the searing cracks in Miller’s heart, but there by one who had told him he loved him only a week ago.

But something in the way Jackson’s eyes met his, and the way his hand continued to move up and down Miller’s back even though the tears had almost tapered off completely, made Miller want to tell him what had really happened.

Well, this man would be responsible for helping to keep him alive. Might as well trust him.

“M-My boyfriend… He d-didn’t come. Didn’t s-say goodbye.”

Just saying the words aloud made them, somehow, more true, and Miller found that he couldn’t prevent another barrage of tears from falling.

God, he hadn’t cried this much since… ever. But then again, he’d never had this much reason to cry.

“Oh,” said Jackson, and pulled Miller closer. His mentor’s arms were warm, and so were the blankets that Jackson wrapped around the shaking teenager. Miller had forgotten how good being held felt, and it hadn’t even been that long since he had been wrapped up like this in Bryan’s arms.

“I’m so sorry, Nate.”

 _Nate._ Bryan was the only one who ever called Miller _Nate._ The nickname sounded so _wrong_ coming from the lips of someone who wasn’t his ex-boyfriend.

“Don’t call me that!”

Miller shoved Jackson, not hard enough to knock him off the edge of the bed but hard enough for him to get the point. The older man stood up, leaving Miller wrapped in the blankets that were suddenly too hot.

“My apologies,” said Jackson stiffly, already making his way to the door. “You should get some rest before we watch the reapings.” The door shut behind him as silently as it had opened a few minutes prior.

Miller fell back into the pillows and his sobs redoubled.

* * *

Bellamy’s arms were safe.

In fact, they were the only place where Octavia felt truly safe. She melted into her older brother’s chest as they sat down on the couch that was only a bit less than half the size of their house, and despite its plushness it was still nothing compared to Bellamy.

Behind them, she could vaguely hear sounds that must have been words coming out of their mentors’ mouths. They were only fragments of sentences, of a conversation that she wasn’t sure if they wanted her and Bellamy to hear or not.

“-a moment to-”

“-don’t have-”

“-just kids, Indra.”

Ah, so they were talking about her and Bellamy. Of course they were. Octavia buried her face back into her brother's shoulder and tried to ignore the man and woman who were to mentor her and Bellamy. 

When she next looked up, it seemed that the dark skinned woman had won the argument against her counterpart. 

"Stand up," she said, and Octavia did. Bellamy followed suit, more reluctantly, looking at the pair suspiciously. She felt awkward, exposed, as the woman ran her eyes over her, sizing her up.

"I suppose we should introduce ourselves," said the man, stepping forward and extending a hand towards Bellamy. 

"We know who you are," said Bellamy, not taking the hand. "Kane and Indra." 

"That's right," said Kane patiently. "And you're Bellamy and Octavia Blake." 

When Indra rolled her eyes, Octavia almost followed suit. 

 "Now that we've gotten those pointless introductions out of the way, can we actually focus on the situation at hand? Or is that going to be too difficult, Marcus? Should we make some more small talk while these children's lives are getting shorter every second?" 

Octavia had to stifle a laugh, unsuccessfully. Kane gave her a smile, but Indra was not amused, whirling her head so quickly that it almost gave Octavia whiplash to watch, turning her gaze from Kane to Octavia, the same harsh look on her face.

"Do you think this is funny, Miss Blake? Do you think the matter of your life is a joke? Because if you do, then my training you is clearly a wast of both our time!"

Octavia didn't know how to respond. She knew that Indra was expecting some sort of response, but she didn't give one, instead crossing her arms and meeting her mentor's eyes with a steely glare of her own. Indra kept her glance for several moments, before her face relaxed and a slight smile emerged on her face.

"Come with me, Miss Blake. We start training right away."

Bellamy took a step forward and put his hand on Octavia's arm. "What the hell? Let my sister be, she doesn't need to start-"

Octavia met Bellamy's eyes and, as gently as she could, shook off his hand.  


	3. Welcome to the Madness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trains arrive in the Capitol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is so short, and so late! I've been busy, and I promise to try and be quicker with future chapters in the future! XOXO!

Echo was lounging lazily on the couch of the train with her head on a pillow and her feet on he arm of the piece of furniture when the Capitol came into view. Her hair was fanned out around her head, and she hoped that no one decided to sit down on the couch near her head. She played absently with a piece of golden string that she had pulled out of her reaping dress and had only just closed her eyes to try and take a nap when Roan plopped down on the couch and nudged her shoulder.

“Echo, look.”

She opened her eyes lazily and broke the string in half in annoyance.

“What the fuck, Roan? I was trying to take a nap.”

She closed her eyes again, hoping that her fellow tribute would go away and let her sleep. He did not.

“Just look, Echo!”

She growled, but sat up anyway and followed his gaze out the window. Her mouth dropped a bit, although she quickly closed it before Roan could notice and tease her about it.

District Two may have been one of the nicest districts of Panem, but it was nothing, _nothing,_ compared to the shining city that the train was quickly bringing closer and closer to her. Echo wasn’t easily impressed by anything, in fact the most impressed she had been in quite some time was at her luck being chosen for the Games this year, but she had to admit that the glittering high-rises of the Capitol made her brain buzz with awe.

“Fuck,” she whispered, and Roan laughed. “Jesus, Echo. Didn’t know you were so easily impressed.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up, Roan. You’re the one who told me to look!”

Despite their bravado and nonchalant attitudes, both Echo and Roan kept their noses pressed up to the glass as the train sped into the city and watched both the buildings and the crowd which had gathered to watch them disembark grow bigger and bigger.

A middle aged woman with tall purple hair covered in glitter caught Echo’s eye and waved enthusiastically, hoping to be acknowledged by one of the tributes with the highest chances to win this year’s Hunger Games. Echo didn’t wave back, and wouldn’t have even if she wanted to. This was the beginning of the show, the beginning of _her_ show.

The crowd tried to press up closer to Roan and Echo when they got off the train, but their escort and mentors surrounded them, and were in turn surrounded by Peacekeepers. The screaming of the crowd was as loud as the banging in the quarries of District Two, but Echo blocked it out until she and Roan were escorted into the Tribute Center and the silence closed around her.

* * *

Luna knew that the crowd was looking for her, for the tribute and her partner who had drawn such a strange reaction from their district. Necks were craning, those who were not at the front of the platform were rising up on their toes to try and catch a glimpse of Luna and Riley inside their train.

Luna didn’t care.

She was stretched out on the couch, eyes flickering absently away from a book that she was only pretending to read and over to Riley, who was on the armchair opposite her, occasionally sending a glare out the window at the Capitol citizens who were looking for him.

Luna wondered what on earth was going through his head. He was probably wishing the crowd would slip and fall in front of the train. She was trying very hard not to wish that.

“Wave to the crowd, Luna. That’s how you make them like you, get sponsors. You know that.”

Luna didn’t even know her mentor’s name, much less anything about her or her games, but she did know that she did not appreciate being talked to as if she were twelve. She didn’t want sponsors, she didn’t want to be liked, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to wave to the goddamn crowd.

The train slowed as it rolled into the station, but Luna was still jolted when it stopped completely. The train doors opened, but Luna took her time getting up off the couch. She almost took the book with her as she made her way to where her mentor stood by the open doors, but decided at the last moment to leave it on the couch.

Luna was apathetic as she made her way through the cheering crowd, all waving to her and calling hers and Riley’s names. Riley followed her, about as excited to be there as she was. The hellish noise and the heat of so many bodies pressing together made Luna want to scream, and she could hear Riley’s growls of annoyance. However, when the sterile walls and bland decor of the Tribute Center, she almost wished she was back outside in the crowd.

* * *

The first sight of the Capitol didn’t make much of a first impression on Murphy. It was big, sure, and it was shiny. Whatever. It took more than that to impress him.

But, with every foot closer to the city the train got, Murphy got angrier and angrier. This was the Capitol, the place that benefited from the districts’ hard work while Murphy, and those like him, starved in the streets and died. If he looked out the window, instead of an awe-inspiring city, all he saw would be red.

So he didn’t look, instead planting himself next to Monroe on the couch and firmly ignoring everything that passed by the window. He couldn't deny being tempted to take a glance outside, but the feeling of his friend next to him renewed his willpower to not look at what he would never have. Monroe wasn't looking, so neither would he. 

Neither of them needed to look, after all. Looking would be admitting that the Capitol fascinated him in a strange way, something he wouldn't do if his life depended on it. He and his district partner exchanged a glance. The train was slowing down, and he could hear the noise of a crowd outside, and assumed that she could as well. That could mean only one thing: they had arrived. 

The doors of the train slid open to reveal the clamoring, screaming crowd that Murphy was sure had met each of the other tribute pairs when they arrived. No reason to think he and Monroe were special in a way that they weren't, because it would be simply untrue. They were just two other worthless pawns who would probably die within the first 24 hours of the Games, survivors or not. 

"Bye, luxury train," he drawled as their mentors guided them off the train and through the narrow aisle that the crowd left for them. One man, Murphy thought it was either the one with the ears filed in points like an elf's or the one whose hair resembled leaves, reached out and brushed his hand against his arm. A peacekeeper lazily stepped between Murphy and the man, but it was obvious that he didn't care one bit. Next to him, Monroe was also being blocked from the crowd by the laziest personal guard that had ever existed. The two gave each other a glance and Monroe rolled her eyes. 

It felt like a blessing when the peacekeepers opened the doors for him and Monroe, since it cut off the reaching of hands but, when the doors closed, Murphy realized that was trapped more fully than he had ever been before.

* * *

Ontari had never liked crowds, her paranoid personality not allowing her to feel at ease among people, but this crowd felt more like home than the clamor of other schoolchildren back in District Seven did, even though she had just arrived.

Because they were cheering for her. 

Beside her, her district partner Lincoln looked to be far more uncomfortable with the whole affair than she was. Ontari couldn't fully understand why. Lincoln was a big boy, a man she supposed, and outwardly had much better odds to win than she did. 

Outwardly. 

Not many District Seven tributes waved to the crowd, and the crowd knew that, and so when Ontari raised both her hands above her head and started waving they went wild. Ontari flashed a bright smile at those in the crowd who struck her as being wealthy, and caught Nia giving her a proud smile from the corner of her eye. 

She already owned this crowd, and Nia knew it. 

Looking away from her mentor and, keeping one eye on the crowd and a smile on her face, she looked at Lincoln, only to find him looking at her. His eyes were narrowed, and she knew that he was thinking what everyone else in their district already thought:  _That girl is mad._

He would see just how  _mad_ she was when she was driving an ax through his chest. 

Ontari was disappointed when the doors of the training center closed around them, but the smile stayed firmly planted on her face. This day was far from over, and Ontari would have the crowd wrapped around her calloused fingers before it was through. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I the only one who noticed that Murphy and Monroe seemed to be kind-of-friends in Seasons 2 and 3??


	4. Strange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tributes are prepped, and meet their stylists.

 

Even if he had never been referred to as such before, and it was supposedly a show of “respect,” Monty was starting to get awfully tired of being called “Mr. Green.” The words just sounded so unfamiliar and _false_ coming out of the mouth of the Capitol man who he supposed was his stylist. The man was trying to talk to him, but Monty simply shrugged and muttered responses, uninterested and apathetic towards the man.

He clutched the bowl of soup to his chest, chilled even though it was summer, and he was wrapped in a blanket to cover himself. The cold water he had been doused with earlier still seemed to linger on his skin. His eyebrows hurt from where they had been “fixed” by his prep team. He wished he had something besides his spoon and bowl to fiddle with, keep his hands busy.

He hadn’t been given his clothes back, and had forgotten his weed on the bedside table in his room back on the train. Not that they would have let him smoke it in here anyway, even though the things the man opposite him had to have been injected with to make his cheeks puff out that way had to have been about forty times worse.

“Mr. Green?”

His stylist looked at him with his raised dyed-blue eyebrows, and Monty supposed he had just been asked a question. “Excuse me? I didn’t hear you?”

“I told you that you and your district partner Raven Reyes will be dressed in suits made of wires, which will light up as you are riding on your chariot. Is that agreeable?”

Monty knew that, even if he told his stylist that that very uncomfortable sounding outfit was _not_ agreeable, it wouldn’t make one iota of a difference. So he just nodded and took another gulp of his soup, wondering where Raven was, and if her stylist looked as strange as his did.

Almost certainly.

* * *

 

“Where’s Maya?”

The prep team that was plucking hair out of Jasper’s eyebrows and scraping the dirt out from under his nails hadn’t answered his question. No matter how many times he asked, they just kept clopping around in their loud shoes and ignoring him.

If they ignored him one more time, they would probably need to tie him down on this damned table, because he would either run out of this damn room or murder them. Possibly both.

“ _Where the hell is my girlfriend?”_

The change of tone in his voice from questioning and concerned to absolutely furious was evident, and made the prep team stop what they were doing and pay attention to him. One of the women sighed in exasperation, but finally deemed to answer the question he must have asked a hundred times since he and Maya were first separated earlier.  

“Mr. Jordan, Miss Vie is in a neighboring room being prepped to meet her stylist, just as you are. I assure you, she is completely fine.”

“Bullshit,” Jasper whispered, then raised his voice back up. “None of us are fucking fine.”

His prep team returned to ignoring him, shoes clacking around the table. Jasper thought that maybe that was better for everyone. He lay still and let them scrub him down with a brush that felt like wire, praying that Maya wasn’t feeling as humiliated as he was.  

* * *

 

Clarke felt like she was on a table in the operating room.

She had spent more than her fair share of time in those, helping her mother try to save the limbs and lives of people in District Eight who had gotten caught in the whirring and dangerous machines in the rundown clothing factories. She wasn’t sure she liked the feeling of being on the other side of the situation.

Two strange women and one just as strange man were circling her, wielding instruments that looked worse and more painful than the ones her mother used, except without anesthesia. Clarke had taken tweezers to her own eyebrows before, when she’d seen a girl at school eyeing her at age twelve, but the burning and tearing feeling of the wax on every part of her body except her head was entirely different and more painful than yanking hair out of her eyebrows one by one.

She bit her lip so hard that she almost drew blood as the women tore the wax strips off her legs, along with all the hair growth that had occurred since she had last been able to afford a single plastic razor, a few months ago. Clarke’s family was rich in comparison to the others in her district, but her mother didn’t approve of her daughter using their hard earned money on razors or other implements of physical vanity. The thin, papery, gown that she was wearing, but likely wouldn’t be for much longer, did nothing to make her feel any less exposed.

It was like being groomed for the slaughter.

Sure enough, the prep team untied the gown where it had been knotted behind Clarke’s neck and pulled it off. She bit her lip harder, and felt a drop of blood fall into her mouth. She didn’t protest, no matter how much she wanted to.

“Miss Griffin,” said one member of the prep team. “Would you please unclench your knees?”

Fuck.

She had been hoping to avoid the continued torture of the wax, but obediently allowed her prep team to continue stripping the hair from her body, clenching her fists in pain and praying for it to be over.

Several minutes which felt like several lifetimes later, the prep team finally allowed Clarke to sit up and rise from the table. They tossed her a thick, fuzzy blanket and led her down the hallway to a door, which opened to reveal the most normal looking person she’d seen since she left Wells an hour or two ago.

A blonde woman smiled and stuck out her hand to shake Clarke’s, gesturing for the prep team to leave them alone. “Hello, Miss Griffin. My name is Niylah.”

Clarke held the blanket up on her body with one hand and reached out to shake Niylah’s with the other. Her one hand wasn’t quite enough to hold the blanket up, and it slipped a bit to reveal her breasts. She quickly withdrew her hand and pulled it back up around her chest, feeling suddenly shier around the tall blonde with a high ponytail than she had around her strange prep team.

Niylah laughed lightly. “It’s alright, Miss Griffin. We’re going to be spending quite a bit of time together over the next few days. There’s no need to feel shy.”

“Call me Clarke, please.”

“Clarke.”

Her name sounded nice coming from Niylah’s lips, and they gave each other a smile. Niylah put a hand on Clarke’s shoulder and guided her to sit down on a beanbag chair, handing her a large piece of cake.

“So, Clarke, tell me about yourself.”


	5. The Noise of the Crowd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tributes experience the madness of the tribute parade

If Roan had been able to choose his own costume for the tribute parade, he wouldn’t have chosen to be a gladiator, even though his costume and Echo’s were the most accurate to the reality of their situation. Despite the Capitol’s reputation for fine fashion, which people here claimed was as comfortable as sinking onto one of those soft couches on the train, he found the cape itchy and the sandals too tight. The golden laurel wreath was constantly drooping down onto his forehead, almost into his eyes, and he tried to use his eyebrows to move it back up into his hair before finally giving up and pulling it back up by hand, wrapping a strand of hair around it to hopefully keep it in place this time. 

He didn’t know if Echo’s costume was as uncomfortable as his, since she wasn’t twitching, itching, or fussing with her laurels. He guessed that it was, but she was just better at hiding her discomfort than he was. They had been standing in the chariot for what felt like hours, but they still weren’t moving. Maybe they were just ridiculously early, or the parade was starting late. Given it was the Capitol, the first option was the more likely. 

“Roan.” 

Echo jerked her head forwards towards the District One carriage, where a tiny twelve year old boy and a tall girl who he could see had taken his hand and was squeezing it in hers had just taken their places. From their posture, he could tell that both of them were immensely uncomfortable in their frilly and gaudy costumes. The boy didn’t make much of an impression other than both a stab of pity for a life that would be cut brutally short and happiness that there was one less Career tribute to pose a possible threat to him and his near-perfect chances of bringing glory to his district and himself. The girl’s shoulders were held high, prideful, and it was her that had made him take notice of District One on the replay of the reaping. 

Lexa Woods would probably look far better in his costume than her own. 

Roan and Echo’s chariot started to move behind that of Lexa and Aden, which entered the streets with tremendous roars of approval from the crowd, almost certainly meant for strong and beautiful Lexa more than slight little Aden. His and Echo’s horses picked up speed into a trot, moving forward and following their predetermined allies into the noise and madness. He had been told to wave, but not to seem too enthusiastic, to begin cultivating the image of the killer that he would have to become early on.

Also, wavers were more popular with the sponsors.

He and Echo had been reluctant to listen, as they were both rebellious, but they did anyway. What else were they going to do?

He could tell that the crowd already loved them. District Two tributes were always favorites, the brutal killers who won the games more often than not. The cheers followed them as they followed Lexa and Aden, even though the first members of the crowd that they encountered must surely be cheering for the District Three tributes, or even District Four, by now. 

He waved automatically, hand moving without his being too aware of it, and kept the corner of his eye on Echo, moving and behaving similarly to him, even as he faced forward and watched as the City Circle come closer and closer. They pulled in, circled around, and the wait began as the crowd cheered. 

* * *

 

Lincoln and Ontari were almost catastrophically late for the Tribute Parade. It hadn’t been his fault, he and his stylist had been standing by the door for upwards of fifteen long minutes waiting for Ontari and her stylist to emerge and allow the party to finally descend. He and his district partner were dressed as trees, like almost every District Seven tribute who had come before them, and Lincoln wanted to hurry up and get the parade over with so that he could just take off the damn costume already. He didn’t know how on earth any District Seven tribute could get sponsors dressed in monstrosities such as the one he was currently imprisoned in. 

His stylist had been about to knock on the door that Ontari was behind and demand that she come out when the door swung open to reveal the tribute, her stylist and, surprisingly, Nia. As far as Lincoln knew, tributes weren’t able to see their mentors before the tribute parade, and mentors were supposed to give them advice about how to handle it before they exited the trains to be handed over to their stylists. Lincoln hadn’t seen Nyko since he left the train that morning, no matter how much he would have liked to, and he didn’t know how Ontari had managed to get away with seeing Nia. Honestly, it probably wasn’t Ontari’s doing. No matter how crafty his district partner was, Nia was twice as smart. 

Lincoln and Ontari had to walk past the other chariots, full of tributes, to get to their assigned chariot. District Twelve’s chariot was occupied, but instead of standing stiffly and waiting for it to start moving, like the rest of the tributes ahead of them, the two of them were sitting together, facing out of the back, meaning that they saw Lincoln and Ontari walk in late. 

Ontari kept her head held up high, ignoring them as if they were beneath her, but Lincoln took his chance to survey these two, obviously tight-knit, tributes. The male tribute’s arms wrapped protectively around the female’s body as he met Lincoln’s eyes in a threatening manner, as if daring him to take one step closer to the two of them. 

Ah, that’s right. Now Lincoln remembered. The Blake siblings, Bellamy and Octavia. Octavia allowed Bellamy’s guarding arms to pull her closer, but she met Lincoln’s eyes as well. Her gaze… Well, looking into Octavia’s eyes made Lincoln freeze for a moment and hold her gaze, wanting to stay standing there forever and let Octavia Blake burn an imprint of herself into his soul. 

As he hurried to catch up with Ontari and climbed into his chariot- they were so late that the ones at the front of the queue had begun to move- his mind’s eye could still see her sitting there, in a black dress that was obviously supposed to represent coal but instead looked more like what a beautiful girl would wear to the funeral of someone who loved her. 

* * *

 

Clarke was still refusing to speak to him.  


Wells had been hoping that being cooped up together on the train, with no company but each other and their mentors, would open her heart and mouth to him and let him apologize. No such luck. She had slammed the door in his face and refused to open it, even when he had knocked again and tried to talk to her about forming an alliance in the arena. 

No matter how mad she was at him, she didn’t want to kill him. Right? 

She had emerged from being dressed in her costume for the tribute parade smiling, despite the fact that the bright colors and different styles of fabric that were supposed to represent their district made them look quite a bit like fashion challenged clowns, with her stylist’s arm around her shoulders and blushing furiously. 

Despite the fact that this was the beginning of the end of their lives, Clarke looked happier today than he’d seen her look in a while. 

Niylah, her stylist, had gotten her settled in the chariot next to Wells, but instead of hanging back after that like his stylist had done, she lingered with an arm over the edge of the chariot and made casual conversation with Clarke. Early on, she had made a brief attempt to include Wells, but stopped when she noted Clarke’s reaction. 

The chariot ahead of them, containing a tall boy, a man more like, and a girl with dark hair started moving forward. Wells couldn’t remember their names from the reaping, not even their names. Soon enough, he and Clarke were moving. 

Niylah pulled her arm off the chariot and waved to Clarke before beginning to make her way to the tribute center, where the stylists and mentors would meet their tributes after the parade.

The noise of the crowd was sudden and overwhelming, and Wells found himself waving automatically, like he had seen other tributes do on TV. Clarke wasn’t waving, and he could see brief flashes of confusion in the crowd. They turned to each other, but made nothing of it- just another slight show of defiance by an angry tribute- and continued yelling and screaming. 

The ride was mercifully fast and unbearably slow at the same time. The horses’ pace took them through the cities so quickly that any flowers thrown in their direction landed closer to the District Nine tributes, but every minute spent in close proximity to Clarke was one that made Wells feel like his heart was going to squeeze itself so tightly that he would no longer be able to live. 

When they finally arrived in the circle with the chariots ahead of them, he had tried to take Clarke’s hand twice. Both times, she had jerked it away, but the second time she had turned her head towards him and had given him a glare that would have frozen hell over. 

He stopped trying after that, and instead looked ahead like she was doing, stopping his waves in their tracks. 

* * *

 

Bellamy and Octavia rode out in the chariot holding hands. Octavia’s coal-black dress fanning out behind her. Bellamy couldn’t deny that he was angry about the dress, especially since he had seen the eyes of the tall boy who had come in late linger on his sister for a moment too long. He couldn’t imagine that tough Indra had given her approval for her tribute to wear anything that hugged her body in such a way that any man or boy would look at his fourteen year old sister with such hungry eyes. 

Speaking of Indra, Octavia was following her instructions to the letter. He didn’t know what the older woman told his little sister- she refused to tell him- but it was obviously affecting her. He didn’t believe that Indra had given Octavia the go-ahead to hold her older brother’s hand in the chariot, but he couldn’t imagine Octavia asking either.

The cheers for the Blake siblings were deafening, but neither reacted to the crowd’s excitement in any way other than gripping each other’s hand a little tighter. Bellamy wasn’t sure if Octavia did, but he knew that the only reason two nothings from District Twelve would get such loud cheers after the audience had already screamed itself hoarse over the twenty two tributes who had made their way out before them was because they were bursting with anticipation to see how siblings would handle being in the arena together. 

The torrent of flowers being thrown to them joined the flowers meant for the other tributes on the ground, and Bellamy supposed that the avoxes would have quite a time cleaning tonight. The black horses to match their black outfits trotted into the circle following those from District Eleven, and came to a stop facing the balcony of the president’s mansion. 

Against all odds, President Snow had survived to welcome the tributes all the way until the 103rd Hunger Games, and so this was the first Quarter Quell that the new president, President Pike, would be presiding over. The man’s voice was booming, and Bellamy doubted that he even needed the microphone attached to his clean shaven face to make himself heard over the roar of the crowd, which silenced the moment it heard him utter the first word of the traditional words of welcome. 

“Tributes, we welcome you. We salute your courage and your sacrifice… and we wish you a happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor.”

Bellamy felt Octavia stiffen next to him, and she gave the president a glare that he must have seen, even from his lofty perch on the balcony of his mansion. He knew, if his mission succeeded and his sister made it out of the Hunger Games alive, then President Pike wouldn’t long outlive him. 


	6. Judgements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tributes arrive at their rooms in the training center.

Emori was relieved when she was finally away from the crowd. Although the yellow dress and grain stalk shaped crown had been the most beautiful articles of clothing that she had ever seeb in her life, and wearing them made her want to twirl around in front of a mirror just to see the skirt twirl around her in a display of frivolity that she had never been able to experience before, the shouts of approval from the people who would cheer when she died in less than two weeks had made her sick to her stomach, and she just wanted to go up to her room and collapse into a bed.

She and Ilian, who had stared ahead during the chariot ride and hadn’t acknowledged either her or the crowd, jumped out of the chariot together, and their mentors and stylists intercepted them, leading them up towards the elevator, hoping to reach it before it got crowded with their fellow tributes and their parties.

They followed where they were led, and were the first duo of tributes to reach this particular elevator. Emori’s mentor smashed her finger onto the button labeled with the number “9” and then the button to close the doors. They whoosed upwards with a thrill of speed similar to the one that Emori had experienced while riding the train to the Capitol, but the speed slower somehow, since they were in an enclosed space with no windows to look out of and see the countryside fly by.  

There was no jolt as the elevator came to a stop. It was smoother than even the train, and Emori only realized that they had stopped when the doors opened to reveal their apartments.

She gasped. If she had thought the train was luxurious, then this suite was like a palace. The food waiting on the table smelled heavenly, and it took everything in her not to run over and shovel it all into her mouth.

Instead, she followed the escort down the hallway to her room, across the hall from Ilian’s, and changed somewhat regretfully out of her yellow dress and into less beautiful but just as comfortable pants and a baggy shirt. Basically, pajamas.

Emori got an annoyed look from the Capitol woman when she turned up in her new outfit, but there was nothing that the woman could really say to make her change into a fancier outfit, especially since there was a high probability that she would get food on it.

Ilian came out to the table a minute or two after Emori, wearing a similar outfit, and finally she was allowed to dig into the heavenly Capitol food. Although the Capitol escort tried to make idle conversation with the tributes at first, she gave up after a few minutes of their continued silence, and in silence was how the rest of the meal passed.

“Thank you for the meal. May I be excused?”

The voice came from the boy sitting next to her, and Emori almost jumped in surprise at the sound of it. It was the first time she’d ever heard Ilian speak and, instead of the whisper of a boy who was as shy as Ilian seemed, his voice rang out clear and strong. Not at all like the voice of a boy who wanted to die.

The escort nodded, and Ilian gave a nod of thanks to their avox servers before disappearing into his room. Emori remained at the table for another few minutes, unable to stop eating the delicious food, and thought about her fellow tribute. Either something had changed in Ilian, or she had seriously misjudged him.

* * *

 

Finn helped Charlotte out of the chariot and kept ahold of her hand as they followed their mentors and escort towards the elevator. Their mentors seemed to be in a hurry, but Finn and Charlotte took their time.

The group from District Eleven reached one of the elevators at the same time as another group that Finn thought might have been from District Eight, based on their colorful costumes with multiple fabric styles.

The female tribute, a blonde girl, was resolutely ignoring the male, a black boy, who was trying to talk to her. Oh, now Finn remembered them. The only pair of tributes who hadn’t shaken hands, Clarke Griffin and Wells something-or-other.

The two groups boarded the elevator together, and they stood in silence until Charlotte let go of Finn’s hand and looked up at Wells. She studied him for a moment, and then spoke directly to him.

“You look like President Pike.”

Wells looked back at Charlotte, but didn’t speak. Finn thought that it was because he didn’t quite know what to say to that. Clarke and Finn both watched him, meeting each other's’ eyes briefly to share a look before turning their eyes back to Wells and Charlotte.

When the elevator came to a stop at the eighth level and Wells and Clarke’s party made to get out, Wells looked back over at Finn’s little district partner and shrugged regretfully.

“I suppose I do.”

The door closed behind them, and the elevator continued onwards.

* * *

 

Octavia, Bellamy and their party were some of the last ones to climb onto the elevators and head up to their rooms. After they had jumped off their chariot and found their mentors, they had decided to wait until there was a bit less crowding, so as to not have to share an elevator with any of the other tributes.

Octavia thought that might have been Bellamy’s doing, since he had spent a good minute glaring at the back of the District Seven boy who had given her a look before the chariots had started. That hadn’t stopped the boy from turning around and meeting her eyes through the crowd before he and his district partner got onto the elevator.

When the District Twelve crew finally got onto the elevator, Octavia met Indra’s eyes and felt a weight lift off her shoulders when her mentor gave her a nod and the corners of her lips turned upwards in the closest thing Octavia had ever seen to a smile from Indra.

It was barely any time at all before the elevator reached the penthouse of the tribute center, and the doors opened right into the apartment. Octavia had to stifle a gasp at the sheer luxury of it. Her room, across the hall from Bellamy’s, contained the softest bed that she had ever felt, and the drawers were already full of clothes exactly her size.

She almost didn’t want to take off the black dress, remembering the way that it had captured the eyes of the crowd (and the District Seven boy in particular), but when she felt the softness and comfort of a pair of loose leggings, she shucked it off and hung it up on a hook on the back of her door, probably to be collected by the avoxes later.

Octavia didn’t know how she should feel about her penthouse apartment. On the one hand, it felt nice to be spoiled a little bit before being thrown into an arena to murder and die, but on the other the blatant displays of wealth in the Capitol made her want to throw up a bit when she remembered the faces of the children back in District Twelve, dirty and gaunt, and their ribs visible through their threadbare shirts.

The moral conflict of enjoying sleeping on a soft bed for the first time in her life wasn’t going to stop her from eating the meal provided, though.

When she joined the rest of her party at the dining room table, Octavia could tell that Bellamy was trying desperately to make eye contact with her. She knew what about, she had seen him glaring at the District Seven boy, and he was almost certainly going to ambush her later in her room to tell her in no uncertain terms that she was to stay away from him.

She might pretend that she was going to, just for Bellamy’s peace of mind. But, really, if she was going to die then she was sure as hell going to live first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that Wells doesn't look that much like Pike at all. I just needed to pretend for a minute so Charlotte still has a motivation in later chapters. Bear with it.


	7. NOT A CHAPTER

Hi everyone. As you can see, this isn't a chapter. I just wanted to let you know that I am not abandoning this work: it will get done. It's just gonna be a bit longer between chapters, since school has started again and I'm taking three AP classes without a lunch, and the rest are honors. So, bear with me. Thanks!!


	8. Lesson Number One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first day of training

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YO GUESS WHO FINALLY GOT OFF (ON) HER LAZY ASS AND FINISHED A CHAPTER!!!!  
> Aren't you proud??  
> I'm not super satisfied with this chapter, but I thought I should just post it anyway, because knowing me it would take another several months to edit.

Echo was trying her hardest to tune out the head trainer. She tapped her feet impatiently, standing next to Roan and near Lexa, the female tribute from District One, and her district partner Aden. She hadn’t had any single lick of conversation with the other girl, but there would be plenty of time for that today.

When the District Four tributes had entered the training center, after Echo, Roan and Lexa and Aden, both she and Roan had looked at them, silently summoning them towards the semicircle that the careet tributes had begun to form. They hadn’t looked like much on the reaping day, and judging by the crowd’s reaction were not much, but they were still Careers. 

Riley had given the group a glare, but Luna had given no acknowledgement whatsoever that she had even seen. Echo had clenched her fists, and become even more eager to get her hands on one of the swords hanging neglected on the wall.

Now the head trainer was blathering on about starvation and freezing and other things that Echo couldn’t be arsed to care about, she scanned the rest of the crowd. Roan was doing the same thing, and neither was even attempting to be secretive about it. 

Each year, the Career pack became a bit bigger, due to one or two other tributes that the original pack agreed to accept. This year, accepting new tributes was even more urgent, since it was incredibly obvious that Riley and Luna were not going to join them. 

Normally, the tributes were big and strong, but not all together too clever. But Echo had her own standards. 

Most of the tributes’ eyes drifted down to the floor the second Echo’s gaze caught on them. Some didn’t even notice her sizing them up. There were two who met her eyes. 

Both of them were girls, on the smaller side with straight brown hair. One had a hungry glimmer in her eyes as she looked back at Echo, and the District Two girl noticed that Roan’s eyes had caught on her too. The girl’s lips curled back in a smile that was almost feral. 

The other girl was standing close to a boy who was obviously her district partner, and Echo remembered that they were the Blake siblings, from District Twelve. Bellamy’s hand was on Octavia’s upper arm, but when you watched them it was obvious that Octavia very much wanted to get her hands on the weapons, and Bellamy very much did not want her to. Octavia’s eyes, when she looked back at Echo, held a challenge.

When the trainer released them, and Echo and Roan introduced themselves to Lexa and Aden, thoughts were whirling around in her head. The two brown haired girls went off to opposite sides of the training center, and Echo kept her eyes fixed on them while she chopped a dummy to pieces. 

* * *

 

Monty couldn’t help but tap his feet. He wished he had something to fidget with, to twist up into a ball in his hand. Raven was standing next to him, but not too close, and he could tell that she was having similar thoughts to his. 

_ What the hell are we doing here?  _

Raven was listening intently to the trainer, and so she missed when the eyes of one of the Career girls scanned over them. Monty’s gaze dropped to his feet as he avoided her eyes. 

When the trainer released them, Raven made her way towards the trap-making station. That would have been the first place Monty would have gone as well, just for something complicated to do with his hands, but he didn’t exactly know how Raven would have taken to him following her around. 

So Monty went over to the only weapons station that wasn’t crowded: archery. There were hardly ever bows in the arena, and so most tributes wouldn’t even bother with that station. He ran his hand over one of the bows, ignoring the trainer’s attempts to engage him in activity, or at least conversation, and tried to calm himself down. 

He was probably going to be dead in a week. Maybe more, if he stopped panicking and actually trained like he was supposed to. The fact that he was touching a deadly weapon made it all the more  _ real,  _ and Monty was about to throw in the towel and join Raven at one of the survival stations she was moving between when a voice from behind startled him. 

“Are you going to use that?” 

Monty jumped and whirled around, wondering which tribute was interrupting him and praying that they wouldn’t murder him for not getting out of the way fast enough. Instead of a hulking career, like that boy Roan from District Two, he saw a lanky boy whose District he didn’t remember, leading a girl by the hand. 

“No,” he said, tension in his shoulders relaxing somewhat.  “Go ahead.” 

The boy gave a smile, and picked up two bows: one, the one that Monty had been absentmindely caressing, he kept. The other he handed to the girl, who seemed reluctant to let go of his hand. 

Oh, right. They were the couple. He remembered seeing her crying her eyes out on the stage directly following her reaping. 

The boy’s arrow went wide of the target on his first shot, but the next hit on the edge, close to the middle, and he and his girlfriend both smiled. Monty watched, not knowing why he was sticking around and watching the boy shoot his arrows when he should have been training himself. 

The boy fired his last arrow, and turned around to see Monty still there. He smiled again, wider this time.

“Do you want to come with us, District Three?”

Monty returned the smile. “Sure. Why not?”

The boy grabbed his girlfriend’s hand as the lunch announcement came, and beckoned for Monty to follow them to a table. “By the way, I’m Jasper.” 

* * *

 

The boy from the elevator last night was looking at Clarke. The little girl from his district had stuck close to his side throughout the entirety of the morning’s training, as far as Clarke could see, and she couldn’t help but admire his willingness to look after her. 

As soon as the lunch announcement came, Clarke put her sword back into the rack and made her way towards an empty table on the far side of the room. She could see Wells beckoning her with his eyes to come and sit with him, but she turned away and ignored him, only feeling a slight twinge of guilt when his face fell. 

She had barely sat down when Elevator Boy- Finn- plopped down on the other side of her table, pulling little Charlotte along with him. 

“Hey, Clarke.” 

“Hi.” 

They fell into an awkward silence for a few minutes, Finn and Charlotte eating the food in front of them like they had never had a bite to eat in their lives, and Clarke picking at a piece of bread in the style of her district, occasionally shoving little crumbs into her mouth. 

Finn, after he had finished his entire plate of food and half the bread basket, including the too-salty stuff from District Four, was the next one to speak. 

“So, princess, I saw you with that sword. You aren’t half bad.”

Clarke knew that she was supposed to say  _ thank you,  _ but instead she glared, furrowing her brow. “Don’t call me princess.” 

Finn grinned, leaning forward on his elbows and popping another piece of bread into his mouth. “Why not?”

“Because I’m not a princess anymore.” 

Of all the things he could do, Finn started laughing, full heaving laughs that shook his whole body. Charlotte took one look at Clarke’s frozen face, caught between expressions of shock and anger, and started laughing too. 

Suddenly, Clarke threw her head down into her arms, elbows on the table, and her shoulders started shaking with laughter. 

Awkward silence effectively broken, the trio let their laughs taper off, until a joke from Charlotte on the appearance of one of the gamemakers set them off again. None of them noticed the girl sitting at the career table with her arm casually wrapped around the shoulder of a small boy, nodding along absently to a conversation she wasn’t listening to, and watching Clarke with an eagle’s eyes, jealousy rearing its ugly head in the pit of her stomach. 

* * *

 

It was much easier to throw spears on a full stomach. Murphy still hadn’t gotten used to the decadent and plentiful food served to the tributes, despite having had several full meals in the Capitol that were each bigger than the amount of food he’d eaten in a week back home, but the unfamiliar feeling of being  _ full  _ was in no way unpleasant. 

Still, that didn’t mean the spears were hitting the target with an accuracy that was anything close to something that would win him these damn games. As the third one he’d thrown since eating lunch went wide of the mark yet again, catching the dummy in the shoulder rather than the lethal shot to its stuffed heart he had been aiming for, Murphy barely managed to resist the urge to stamp his foot in frustration. 

The trainer corrected his stance, only to have the next spear miss its mark even more spectacularly. He shoved the man away from him when he moved to help him again, and turned around to find the room, thankfully, focused on their own activities. Even the careers seemed to have taken a well timed break from scouting other tributes’ abilities, and were chattering in the center of the room, egging District Two’s giant of a male tribute on as he tested how much weight he could lift before breaking a sweat. 

Only one tribute seemed to be watching John Murphy’s failure at throwing spears: a boy, dark skinned with short hair, who seemed to be waiting for his turn to have a go with the deadly projectiles. His eyes were flickering back and forth between Murphy and the spear, unable to tell which one was more dangerous to be looking at at the moment. 

Fury flashed inside his heart, because  _ how dare this boy look at him at all,  _ especially  _ like that, like he was something to be pitied, like he was a walking corpse.  _

Even if he couldn’t aim a spear, he would show this boy that he was not someone to be messed with. Before the trainer could make any sort of move to stop him, Murphy had stormed over towards the other boy and shoved him up against one of the walls, pinning him against it by his throat with his forearm. 

“What the fuck you lookin’ at?”

The boy shoved him backwards and tried to run off towards the other side of the training room, but before he could make his escape Murphy had caught his breath and tackled him from behind, bringing the boy down to the ground-  _ hard.  _

However, before he could pummel him into the floor, Murphy found himself with his arms held behind his back by the spear trainer, while a tribute helped the other boy up from the floor. 

“Wells,” asked the boy, who was flanked by two girls, one little and the other with blonde hair both glaring at Murphy. “Are you alright?”

Wells nodded, and the blonde girl immediatley lost interest, hair swinging as she went back to whatever she had been doing before Murphy attacked. 

As for Murphy, he willed his glare to burn a hole in the back of Wells’ head as the boy who had helped him up took his arm and they followed the blonde. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooo yeah...  
> I know it was a long-ass wait for this chapter, and depending on how my schedule turns out it might be a little while before the next one happens. My estimate is the weekend of Nov. 9th (at best) to my school's holiday break (at worst). Please be patient with me! I'm a busy student!


	9. Lesson Number Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tributes continue their training, and a party is planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, y'all. So, the lovely and brilliant Death_Shapeshifter has taken over the writing of this fic. I will be continuing on as their beta/editor. Thank you guys for being so patient with us as we sorted everything out. Love every single one of you!

Lexa smirked in triumph, eight dummies lying in scattered pieces. It had taken her mere seconds, her dual blades cutting through them easily.

“Good, again.” The trainer ordered, causally seated on a table. “This time; even faster. Think you can handle it?” They asked, folding their arms.

“Of course.” Lexa artistically twirled her dual blades, flashing a vicious smirk at the tributes who were openly gawking.

She lunged at a dummy to her left, slashing her blade upwards through her neck. The head tilted backwards, hitting the ground with a thud. Not slowing, Lexa cut through the torso of another dummy.

“Faster!” The trainer yelled, jumping off the table. “C’mon, you can do better than this! Faster!” The trainer rounded on the other tributes, sending them scampering. “Get back to your training! Or else you’ll make it too easy for her in the arena!” 

The tributes immediately go back to their training, some blushing bright red. One tribute was slower to turn, bright ocean blue eyes watching Lexa’s muscles clench and unclench. A light blushing coloured her cheeks. Her eyes darkened.

* * *

 

Charlotte looked up at the trainer towering above her, gulping in fear. Her hands were sweating, making it harder to keep her grip the wooden pole.

“Do your worst, hit me.” The trainer offered, voice a low growl.

Squaring her shoulders, Charlotte lunged forward, swinging the pole in a low arc towards her opponent's left knee. It clashes with the trainer’s own pole, sending tremors up Charlotte’s arm.

“Not bad.” The trainer offered her a gentle smile. “Now, again.” The smile vanished, and Charlotte was knocked backwards, falling to the ground.

She pushed herself up, glancing at the District Two tribute locked in combat beside her. He was fighting viciously, not sparing any hits on his own trainer, who was equally vicious.

Her trainer tapped her shoulder with the pole, catching her attention. “Look,” her trainer starts, crouching beside her. “I know this is hard, you know you won’t survive long in there. But, if you train now, you will stand a better chance. Okay?” 

She nodded, picking up her weapon. “Okay.” She agreed, snatching her weapon up.

“Good, let’s go.”

Charlotte smiled tentatively, attentively stepping forward. Suddenly she snapped the pole to the right, slamming it into her trainer’s ribs. She took another step forward as the trainer stumbled back, gaining confidence. She wacked the trainer in the knee, a laugh slipping out.

“What’s so funny, kid?” The trainer asked, lunging forward and sweeping Charlotte’s legs out from under her. She landed on her back with a surprised  _ oof _ .

“Nothing,” Charlotte gasped, rolling onto her side. “What’s your name? Your real name?” She asked, looking curiously up at the trainer.  

The trainer looks away, messing nervously with the pole. “It’s… It’s Phoenix. My name’s Phoenix.”

“Like the bird that bursts into flames when it’s time to die. Then is reborn from the ashes.” A deep voice stated. “Does it mean something to you?” Charlotte nearly jumped in shock, glancing behind her to see the District Twelve male tribute.

“Yes, it does. I picked it when I came out to my family. Since I said that I’ve been different.” Phoenix explained, offering a hand to Charlotte. They pulled her up easily, glaring at the boy. “Don’t you have training to do?” They asked, all emotion gone from their voice. 

“Just came over to ask Charlotte if she wanted to come and meet my younger sister. Octavia’s only a few years older than her,” he explained, his arms folded across his chest. “Do you? Charlotte?”

Charlotte glanced at Phoenix, then back at the boy. “No thanks, I have training to do.” She answered dryly, stepping away.

The boy clenched his jaw, before he spun on his heel and marched away.

* * *

 

Octavia fiddled with the piece of rope in her hands, unsure of quite what to do with it. The supervisor person was busy showing another tribute how to do a rather complicated knot.

“Miss Blake.”

Octavia startled at the smooth voice that came from the muscular boy- more like a man- who had appeared beside her. She spun to face him, the rope abandoned.

“I apologise for startling you, Miss Blake. I just wanted to invite you to the party tonight. It’s for the tributes. Would you like to go? With me?” Lincoln asked, hands clasped behind his back. His dark eyes watched the younger tribute eagerly.

Octavia’s mouth had fallen open in shock, her eyes glazed over. Her silence unnerved Lincoln, causing him to fidget. When she still did not answer, Lincoln began to regret asking.

“Miss Blake? Miss Blake?” He tried, his heart falling to his feet. “I… I must go somewhere. Sorry for… accidentally offending you.” He turned tail and began to leave, stopping in his tracks when a voice spoke up from behind him.

“I would love to!” Octavia shouted, not realising how loud she had spoken until the words had left her mouth. Whipping her head back and forth to make sure that Bellamy hadn’t heard, and finding him still across the room speaking to the youngest tribute, she tried again. “I would love to,” she repeated, this time at a lower volume.

“You- you would?” Lincoln stuttered, turning back to the embarrassed looking girl. “Really? With me?” He asked, thumb pointed at himself.

“Well, yeah. You’re like… really hot.” 

_ Shit. Didn’t mean to say that out loud. Shit. Shit. Abort mission! ABORT THE FUCKING MISSION! _

While Octavia was mentally panicking, and possibly having a heart attack, Lincoln was smiling like a child on Christmas morning, his heart swelling in size.

“Great? I wish I could pick you up, but your brother would probably kill me. So, that peacekeeper over there? That looks like a boy but surprisingly isn’t? She’ll be able to collect you, around say nine o’clock.” Lincoln pointed at a bored looking peacekeeper. 

Octavia blinked in shock as Lincoln took off, narrowly avoiding a fuming Bellamy.

“Hey O.” Bellamy sighed, sitting down cross legged on the floor like a small child.

_ Fucking hell, that didn’t go too terribly. _

“Hey Bell.” Octavia sighed, wistfully, slumping onto the table, already looking forward to nine o’clock.

* * *

 

Harper nearly laughed as she watched Octavia melt into a puddle of goo. She heard someone stop behind her but didn’t pay it any notice.

“Straight people are weird.” The person deadpanned, just before Harper heard a soft thud as a knife found its target. “Really fucking weird.”

“They are.” Harper agreed, turning around to watch a very cute tribute throw knives. “I can guess you aren’t straight. Well, hopefully anyway.” Harper flashed the tribute a cheeky wink.

“You would be correct, I’m gay. What about you?” The very cute tribute asked.

“Hey gay, I’m Harper. I’m an individual who happens to be pansexual. No, that doesn’t mean I’m attracted to pans.” Harper introduced herself, watching as the tribute threw two more knives in quick succession.

“Oh, a sense of humour? My  _ name _ is Monroe, well my last name anyway. I don’t exactly like it when just anyone calls me by my first name. Only people close to me have that privilege.” Monroe grinned, grabbing the three embedded knives from the targets.

“Well, we’re both probably going to be dead before the week is out. The odds aren’t exactly in my favour. Can’t even throw a knife.” Harper smiled sadly, eyes downcast.

“I guess you’re right.” Monroe muttered, looking at the knives in her hands. “You can call me Zoe then, but don’t tell anyone.”

“Teach me how to throw a knife, I want to stand some chance.” Harper bargained, tilting her head to the side. “Can’t make it too easy on District One over there, now can we?”

“You’re right, we can’t.” Monroe agreed, placing the knives down. “C’mon, let’s go.” She beckoned Harper over, smiling softly. “Let’s see what you can do first, yeah?” Monroe handed Harper a knife, stepping away.

Harper grinned, gripping the knife. “This will be fun.” She muttered, throwing the knife at the target. It sailed way over the shoulder, clattering harmlessly against the wall.

“Not too bad, but you’re holding the knife all wrong.” Monroe explained, showing Harper the correct way to handle the weapon. “See? Try now.” 

Harper tries again, and it barely clips the shoulder. Still, it’s progress. And that’s something.

“Who taught you how to throw a knife? You seem experienced.” Harper asked, throwing a second knife. She internally cheered when the knife caught on the shoulder. 

“My roommate was a psychopathic fuck with an obsession with weapons. She taught me a few things.” Monroe explained, throwing a knife at a target with an astonishing amount of force. “Before she went and got herself arrested. Don’t know where she is now.”

“Crazy.” Harper commented, smiling at Monroe.

* * *

 

Ontari wrenched the axe free, glaring at the smug trainer.

“You fucked up. That would get you killed in the arena. You wanna die?” The trainer asked, head tilted to the side arms crossed over chest. “If you wanna die, get out of here now. Don’t be wasting my time.”

She snarled at the trainer, spinning around and cutting a dummy’s arm cleanly off. The limb fell to the ground, rolling away. Ontari inhaled deeply, shooting a dark look at the trainer. She growled, before lunging forward like a snake.

The trainer made several more unhelpful comments, each word grating on Ontari’s nerves.

“Do you ever fucking shut up?” Ontari hissed, throwing the axe in frustration. It embedded itself in an unsuspecting dummy’s head.

“Nah, back to training.” The trainer ordered, a challenging glint in their eye.

Ontari snapped, lunging at them and taking them to the floor, hard. Scrambling on top of them she began to punch them repeatedly in the face, not giving them the slightest chance to defend themself. She relished in the pain from her throbbing knuckles, laughing at the sight of blood.

Two peacekeepers grabbed Ontari by the arms, forcefully dragging her off. She twisted. She squirmed. She kicked. She screamed. She spit. She thrashed. The peacekeepers threw her against the wall, quickly pinning her to it.

“Stop fighting!” One peacekeeper snapped, punching her in the stomach. “You’ll just make it harder on yourself.” Ontari calmed, settling on smirking darkly at the near unconscious trainer.

“Not so tough now, huh?” Ontari taunted, straining against the two peacekeepers. All that got her was to be dragged forward and thrown backwards into the wall.

“Get her out of here! And make sure her mentor is told about this!” The peacekeeper obviously in charge ordered, red in the face.

Ontari was dragged from the room, kicking and screaming. As the doors closed, her eyes locked with those of the girl from District Two.

_ I’m dangerous, don’t mess with me. _

The look screamed, the stare off ended as the doors slammed closed.

* * *

 

_ Fuck. Shit. _

Raven mentally cursed as the piece of metal slipped and sliced open her finger. She put down the object that totally wasn’t a makeshift grenade, quickly attending to the bleeding wound. She haphazardly wrapped a piece of bandage around it, tying it off loosely and going back to work.

“What are you doing?” A soothing voice asked, from behind her. The female tribute from District Four- Luna- had drifted over from the spear throwing station. “Are you building an explosive?”

“No!” Raven answered, quickly. Too quickly. 

“You are lying.” Luna noted, picking up a scrap of metal. “Why are you building an explosive, Raven Reyes? Do you intend to use it in the arena?”

Raven glanced at Luna, setting down the weapon. “I don’t want to go down first, I want to prove I’m strong enough to survive. Do you get it?”

“I would rather be slaughtered then harm someone innocent. I will kill Riley and that is all. I do not deserve to win anyways.” Luna looked down at the table, biting her lip. “Why should I? I killed him.”

Luna looked at Raven, before smiling sadly. She turned to leave, before stopping. “Will you be at the party tonight?” She asked, not daring to face Raven.

“Yeah, I will be.” Raven nodded, going back to fiddling with the weapon, curiosity about this strange girl building.

“Good.” Luna smiled, before quickly walking away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the chapter, and thanks again to Death_Shapeshifter for agreeing to help me out!


	10. Watch the Flickering Lights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tributes go to the party.

To say Octavia was nervous about the party would be an understatement, she could feel tremors in her shoulders as she forced herself to remain calm and collected while Indra patiently went over some rough plans for the Games. She tried her best to listen, knowing rationally that what Indra was saying was bound to be helpful information but having a difficult time. Her thoughts kept drifting back and forth between her nerves about the party and the fact that everyone she had interacted with at training had seemed to be a decent person, and not someone she would want to kill. That only enhanced her nerves about the party, since getting to know them better would only make it harder to kill them. She supposed that was why the Capitol was allowing it, to enhance the drama in the arena as people betrayed those with whom they had enjoyed themselves. 

At around 7 o’clock, Octavia started to get ready, because this was her first proper party. Her family in District 12 had come from the Seam, and people there were too involved with their day-to-day survival to throw any real parties. Only the towners threw parties, and none of them ever invited Seam kids. She wanted to look as nice as she could manage. Luckily, she had a small bit of knowledge with makeup and whatnot, and she’d also learned a few things from her stylist and insufferable prep team. 

First on the list was a nice hot shower, Octavia pressed several buttons randomly until she stumbled on the waterfall effect, now, that was heaven. Using some shampoo that smelled like coconuts, Octavia carefully washed her hair, trying to work out any miniscule specks of dirt that the prep team had missed, combined with the sweat and oils from training. Her hair had never been this clean. The soothing water on her skin coaxed her into a daze for a long period of time, and her mind went blank as she let it rush over her. 

Getting out of the shower, Octavia realised she had about an hour and ten minutes left, she had been in a daze for longer then she thought she had, and still the water had not gone cold like she thought it would have. She quickly dried her hair with a soft towel, before she put on the black sweatpants she had been wearing beforehand and a black sports bra.

Venturing out of the bathroom, Octavia picked out a pair of navy skinny jeans, a t-shirt that had the colours of the rainbow dripping down it and a black leather jacket, with a pair of red and white high-top Vans.

Leaving the clothes on the bed and the shoes on the floor, Octavia padded back into the bathroom. She picked up the towel from the tiled floor where it had fallen, once again using it to make sure any excessive moisture was wrung out.

Feeling slightly uneasy with the stifling silence bearing down on her, Octavia once again wandered out of the bathroom- still towelling her hair dry- and turned on the large TV, flicking onto a music channel that played numerous songs from before the wars.

Content, Octavia abounded the towel to get dressed, forgoing the shoes and jacket for now. Quickly, she checked the time and hurried back into the bathroom, muttering under her breath.

Octavia rifled through the cabinets until she found some makeup. There wasn’t much, but there was enough. She checked to see what kind of makeup there was, before she carefully applied some, remembering how her annoyingly bright stylist team had down it themselves.

Twenty minutes later, and only having restart  _ once _ , Octavia was finished with the makeup. She even managed to surprise herself by doing a decent job. Her stylist would probably be horrified with the way Octavia had done it, but this was her first real try.

Her proud smile faded when she looked in the mirror and saw her hair, twirling a few strands around her fingers she brought the hair into her direct line of vision, now frowning as she tried to come up with an idea for her hair.

_ Leave it like it is? No. Tie it back in a ponytail? No. _

A brisk knock on her bedroom door startled Octavia from her pondering, wondering who it could be, Octavia quickly walked out, making a beeline towards the door.

The guard that Lincoln said would be escorting her to the party wasn’t due for another fifteen or so minutes at least. It couldn’t be them. So, who was it?

Opening the door revealed an unusually smiling Indra. Her smile only grew more as she took in what Octavia was wearing. “I knew it,” Indra muttered, stepping past Octavia. “I knew you would be smart enough to go to the party.”

_ Smart enough? What? Indra is happy with me for wanting to go to a PARTY?! Is she drunk or high, this isn’t normal behaviour for her? Maybe she’s been possessed by a demon or an alien. Fuck, what’s going on? _

A tiny, sane, part of Octavia knew there was no way that Indra could possibly be possessed, but her inner child, fuelled with hours of Bellamy reading stories to her made her think very differently.

_ Wait, shut up you idiot. Indra’s been talking this whole time. _

“-a perfect plan. I’m glad you’re smarter than that foolish brother of yours. He was going to lock you in here if you tried to leave.” Indra rolled her eyes, before delicately plucking at a piece of Octavia’s hair. “Now, we must do something with your hair. It’s a mess.”

* * *

Lincoln had accidentally fallen asleep when he returned from training, not waking up until half an hour before Octavia was supposed to arrive at the party. He only woke up because he heard yelling from the sitting area. From what he could hear Nia was furious at Ontari for attacking a guard and most likely ruining any chance of making an alliance with the Careers.

Honestly? Lincoln couldn’t care less. He had a date with a gorgeous girl, and they’re going to a party. Right now, that’s all Lincoln can think about. His date with a gorgeous girl: Octavia Blake.

To which he will be late unless he gets moving. And keeps moving at a high speed.

Right, shower first. Obviously. Not like he could get ready and then have a shower. That would be stupid. He shouldn’t do that. No, not at all.

After possibly the fastest shower Lincoln was capable of having, he went through his wardrobe to find something suitable to wear. Why were there so many damn clothes in there? Did the person stocking his wardrobe think he was going to get changed every split second? There were enough clothes that he could and  _ still _ have plenty left. 

Fifteen minutes and throwing five  _ hideous _ outfits out of the room, Lincoln finally found something he would be comfortable wearing that didn’t involve ten different bright colours, settling on black jeans, white v-neck t-shirt, blue button up shirt and a pair of dark blue shoes.

Checking the clock, he realised he only had ten minutes before Octavia was due to arrive at the party. He was running short on time, and he was running out fast.

Dressing lightning fast and not lacing up his shoes, Lincoln bolted out of his room, shirt held tight in his grasp. He burst through the sitting room and barrelled towards the door, ignoring the fighting Ontari and Nia. As the door slammed closed behind him, silence falls between the two-bickering woman.

“Who lit his ass on fire?” Ontari scoffed, breaking the tense silence. She moved away from her mentor, disappearing into the kitchen to find a drink.

Seeing that the two elevators are in use, Lincoln headed toward the emergency staircase, the heavy metal door resisting for all of five seconds. The dark stairs sparsely lit by flickering lights reminded of something from an old zombie movie: as soon as a foolish character takes one step onto the stairs, zombies descend upon them and tear into their flesh as their terrified screams reverberate up and down the stairs. Lovely. 

Swallowing the slight fear, Lincoln nearly threw himself down the stairs, going down two at a time sometimes three. Going as fast as his legs could muster the wall numbers flew by, counting down to 0 – or the ground floor- Lincoln slammed his shoulder into the door, hardly slowing as he raced past stunned workers.

Once free of the building, Lincoln took a moment to take in his surrounds as passers-by milled around him, each lost in their own small world. His chest heaved as he worked to regain a normal breathing pattern.

In awe of the feats of architecture surrounding him, Lincoln sat beside a water fountain, fixing his shoes and lacing them up properly.

“Let’s go.” He mutters to himself, pulling on the shirt but leaving it open. “I have a party to get to.” Fixing the collar of his shirt, Lincoln melted into the crowds, heading towards the building where the party was supposed to be, fully aware that there must be people watching him to ensure that he didn’t make a run for it.

Not a single member of the crowd paid him any mind, obviously nobody recognised him. That was good for Lincoln personally, made getting to the party a lot easier, faster and painless.

* * *

An old movie from a company called Disney, one where a boy and his health robot have varying science-y adventures, was playing on the large TV in the sitting room as Charlotte curled up on the couch with a quilt pulled up to her shoulders. A large bowl of popcorn sat on the coffee table, and a steaming mug of hot chocolate was nestled in Charlotte’s small hands.

The others had retreated to their own rooms, leaving poor Charlotte on her own. She had stayed seated at the dining table, hugging her legs to her chest, when a young looking Avox had gently took hold of her hand and lead her to the sitting room. The Avox had gently pushed her onto the couch, disappearing and returning with a quilt, carefully tucking it around Charlotte.

“Why are you being nice to me?” Charlotte had asked, twisting her hands into the warm quilt. “You don’t have to. You don’t even know me. Why would would-” 

The Avox had quickly raises two hands, stopping the rambling girl in her tracks. The Avox had disappeared into a tiny room, nearly instantly returning with a small whiteboard and blue marker.

Charlotte had watched as the Avox wrote something on the board, the letters small and neat, curiosity had questions burning the back of her throat, but something - Uncertainty? Fear? - kept the questions at bay. To occupy herself, Charlotte had continued twisting her hands into the quilt, lightly biting her tongue to stay quiet.

A soft cough from the Avox had caused Charlotte to look up at the Avox, who was offering the board to her. Gingerly, Charlotte had taken hold of it, turning it over in her lap to look at it properly.

**_‘You’re scared, you are being forced into an arena with 23 other children in a few days’ time. You are young, and you are scared that you will die a horrible bloody death. A distraction is a good idea. What movie do you wish to watch?’_ ** The whiteboard had read, the Avox had given her a small smile, turned, and walked towards the TV.

Charlotte had been stunned: the Avox was being so kind to her. Even the Avox must know that the chances of Charlotte returning from the arena were slim to none. Why be so kind to a soon to be dead girl?

Hearing the microwave start up in the kitchen, Charlotte had been shaken from her thoughts, and looking around in confusion she saw that a movie was playing and the Avox was clattering around in the kitchen making something. A large bowl was sitting on the counter, a tub of hot chocolate beside it.

Unsure of what to do, Charlotte settled down to watch the movie, oblivious to Finn sneaking past her and out the door.

A few minutes had passed before the Avox had set down a bowl of popcorn beside her, and carefully handed her a hot chocolate topped with marshmallows and extra cocoa powder.

Charlotte managed to watch three more movies, and was half way through a fourth before she fell asleep.

* * *

 

The party was in full swing by the time Finn arrived: the music was loud, and some older teens were dancing. A small group of teenagers were building something with uncooked spaghetti and marshmallows, talking and laughing while sneaking marshmallows away.

Standing in a far corner, imposing figures half hidden in the shadows, were the Careers, drinks in hand as they observed the partying teens. 

Lexa Woods was standing in front, dressed in a red and black unbuttoned flannel, a light grey t-shirt, ripped black skinny jeans and combat boots. Her hair was tied back in a series of intricate braids, and there was light eye makeup surrounding her eyes. A sleek black watch was strapped around her wrist, and her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows. 

Roan Azgeda was standing to Woods’s right, wearing a navy shirt that showed off his muscles, lazily tucked into a pair of plain black cargo pants, a pair of tan worker boots finished off his outfit. His hair was tied back in a tight man bun, several strands escaping and framing his face. His burly arms were crossed over his chest, a black bomber jacket thrown over his right shoulder.

Echo Teles was standing to Woods’s left, half hidden behind the girl, she was wearing a black t-shirt with splashes of greys, blues, and whites, loose grey jeans and black and white Vans. Her hair was left untouched, falling in waves down her shoulders. There was the barest hint of makeup on her face, around her eyes. There were several bracelets tied around her left wrist, a mix of different colours.

Woods was calm and collected, piercing green eyes slowly taking in the room, while Azgeda and Teles seemed to be waiting for something, their own eyes darting around the place, unable to settle. Woods had her gaze directed mostly towards the group of teens who were building something, every so often a small smile tugging on her lips.

Curious, Finn looked over at the group himself, trying to see what had caught the fierce Career’s attention. Too many teenagers were in the way, so Finn craned his neck, doing his best to peek over the heads of teens.

Suddenly, something hit his back, sending him stumbling forward. Barely managing to stop himself from falling into the boy standing before him, Finn spun around, eyes searching for what had hit him. Seeing nothing, Finn moved to turn back to gawking at the group, until a flash of white by his shoe caught his attention.

Bending down, Finn picked up the small object, clutching it tightly in his hand. Risking a quick glance around himself, he slunk towards a wall, pressing himself against it. Smirking at the fact that no one was near him, he opened his hand, picking up the object.

After a quick examination, Finn noted that there was paper wrapped around the object, tied onto it with a small string. He tugged at the string, untying it quickly. Once the paper was free, Finn took hold of it, slipping the object – a ping pong ball, he absentmindedly noted- into the pocket of his light blue bomber jacket.

Smoothing out the paper the best he could, Finn read the carefully pen written note, frowning he glanced around, seeing several members of the marshmallow group glaring at him, two if which were eating marshmallow speared on pieces of uncooked spaghetti and one of the group was no other than Aden Woods, who was sneering at Finn. 

Glancing again down at the note-  **_‘Stop staring at my cousin, creep. Or I’ll gut you in the arena. This is your only warning, better watch yourself.’_ ** \- Finn folded up the note and slipped it into the right back pocket of his black jeans.

Confusion briefly flashed across his mind. How did the ping pong hit him in the back if he had been staring at the group? His question was answered when he spotted a teenager who had gone past him after he’d been hit standing beside the young Woods.

Obviously, the kid had been the one to throw the ping pong. Woods must have given the kid the note, who then looped around the room and then thrown the ball at Finn and returned to Woods with the declaration of a successful mission. How the kid got the ping pong ball was a mystery, maybe some people just happen to carry around ping pong balls?

Finn locked eyes with Woods, quickly breaking eye contact when he spotted the other three Careers moving towards him, anger evident on Lexa Woods’s face.

Scared for his well being, Finn hurried through the crowd, putting as many bodies as possible between him and the Careers. He hoped he would survive the night in one piece.

* * *

 

The layout of the party was simple. There were multiple rooms, and each had individual purposes.

The room you would arrive in first was a sitting area, there were lots of different places to sit. Chairs, bean bags, cushions, thick blankets. It was the room to relax in and take a break from all the other activities.

Beside that room there was a spacious room for dancing, mingling and talking. Chairs and tables had been completely removed from the room, allowing even more space. Loud, upbeat music was playing, the speakers turned up to the maximum volume to encourage the teens to dance. Carefully placed disco lights lit up the room.

Directly across from that room, there was a fairly big room. Tables were arranged neatly in rows in the middle of the room. Various types of chairs were arranged along the walls. Food and drinks were spread out on the tables, the small amount of alcohol was on a separate table then the others, with four adults guarding it. Music was playing in the background, volume turned down low.

Other rooms were for various types of games, one game for each room. Whoever are in those rooms get to choose the music, no matter what. Each room was fully soundproofed, but there was at least one Peacemaker in each room, armed with tasers.

The bathrooms were the two rooms in the building. One bathroom was for anyone with a disability, and the other was a bathroom for everyone else. That bathroom was neatly divided with high walls, so that everyone could have some the privacy they deserve. To help reserve electricity, the lights were motion activated. Sensors placed around the door.

Every room was neatly labelled, so you wouldn’t have to worry about getting lost. There was a sign that warned of security cameras in the halls, that said: ‘ **Please don’t do anything you would be uncomfortable of other people seeing. The security cameras are for your own safety. We would hate for anything to happen to you.** ’

A small elevator would bring you up to the roof, where you could relax and have some alone time. There were a few flower beds, the types of flowers carefully labelled in permanent marker. In a medium sized room there was a few chairs and blankets. Several unarmed Peacemakers were spread out across the roof, to keep an eye on anyone who came up.

Lexa turned to the two Careers behind her, face a stoic mask as usual. “Go do your own thing but keep an eye on Collins. See if you can talk to a few other tributes, find any weaknesses that will help us.” She ordered, her tone making it clear it was an order.

Roan and Echo nodded, and both turned and disappeared into the crowd. 

Echo walked towards the door, avoiding any teenagers who stumbled around like drunks. Most kids avoided Echo anyway, she was extremely scary, and anyone knew that if they even irritated her, they would be dead in seconds. She rolled her eyes at Lexa ordering her around, but she knew that what the other girl was saying was a good idea. Now was probably the best chance they would ever have to observe other tributes’ personalities, something which could be just as important as their combat skills.

Roan had chosen to walk in the same direction Collins had disappeared in. Several swooning party goers begged for an autograph or picture, but Roan chose to shake their hands instead. The polite part goers were gifted with a soft kiss to the back of their hands. 

Lexa straightened her flannel, wiped the sweaty palms of her hands off her jeans, and began to walk towards a gorgeous blonde-haired girl known as Clarke Griffin.

Her path was barred suddenly by a young blue haired man, who seemed to be a reporter of some kind. Two guards were already walking towards him.

“You’re Lexa Woods! Lexa Woods!” He had yelled, he had shoved his way towards Lexa, thrusting a recorder thing in her face. “This is Anthony Graham and I’m having an exclusive interview with the one and only Lexa Woods!” He said into his recorder. “Lexa, how confident are you that you will win the Games?” He asked, putting the recorder back in her face.

Stunned, Lexa could only stare at the crazy man. After a few moments she realised the man was growing steadily impatient and waiting for an answer. Leaning forward, she looked the man in the eyes. “Well, Anthony,” Lexa begun, putting an arm around his shoulders. “I’m not answering any questions. And there’s no reporters allowed here, so I suggest you run along before you get yourself in trouble.”

Anthony seemed dismayed with her answer, even angered. He stuffed his recorder into his pocket and seized Lexa’s arm, yanking her close. “Listen here girl, I could be your only chance of surviving the Games. You should really play along. I think you owe me a favour now, for being so disrespectful. If you catch my drift.” He flashed her a vulgar smirk.

“Remove your hand from my arm before I dismember it. I owe you nothing, and if you try anything I will castrate you.” Lexa growled, her tone deathly cold. “There are two guards behind you, they heard everything. I can tell you they are less than pleased.”

One of the guards grabbed Anthony by his collar and hoisted him up into the air. Anthony’s feet dangled uselessly, a good foot from the floor. He furiously kicked out as he attempted to pry the guard’s hands from his collar. “Let me down, you filthy animal!” He screeched, spit flying from his mouth.

Guard number two turned to Lexa, annoyance written clearly on his face. “Ms. Woods, I am incredibly sorry for the behaviour of this man. Disrespectful and completely out of line. I can assure you that he will be punished accordingly for his actions. Please, enjoy the rest of your night.” He turned to his colleague and gestured for them to remove Anthony from the premises.

“My lawyer will hear about this!” Anthony spit, as he clawed viciously at the guard’s arms. “I will sue you for assaulting an innocent civilian! I have not done anything wrong!” He kicked the guard in the stomach, drawing the softest of grunts from the unfortunate guard.

Done with his shit, the guard released Anthony’s collar, allowing Anthony to plummet to the ground like a rock in water. He landed in a heap, but the guard was merciless. Anthony was wrenched to his feet, only for the guard to kick his legs out from under him, forcing him to hit the ground face first. His face connected with the ground with a painful crack, blood immediately spurting from his nose.

Not finished yet, the guard twisted Anthony’s arm painfully high up his back and dug their knee into the small of his back. Leaning forward until their lips were nearly touching the squirming man’s ear, they twisted his arm just enough for him to stop, a whimper falling from his lips.

“You assaulted a Peacekeeper, caused bodily harm. That’s a capitol offence. You trespassed and harassed a tribute. That’s a capital offence too. You pissed me off. Big no no. What’s going to happen is; I’m gonna take you out back and beat you bloody. Until you learn your lesson. Then, I’m gonna take your whiny ass to jail and throw you in a cage for a few days. Public whipping for you, it’ll be televised too. After that, well who knows. The dogs do love some fresh meat.” They snarled into Anthony’s ear, smirking as the man sobbed in terror.

Guard number two huffed a laugh and handed his partner a pair of handcuffs. He moved forward as the handcuffs were tightened around Anthony’s wrists, the cold metal biting into his skin. The guard reached down, grabbed Anthony’s arm, waited for his partner to stand up, and together they dragged a sobbing Anthony away.

Most of the party goers ignored the two guards and their prisoner, whenever it was time for the Games, this would become normal. There were always a few reporters who never listened and had to be punished. The punishments were brutal, you would want to die once they were complete. Most did, because if your offence was serious enough, you would be refused medical treatment.

When they reached the door that lead to the stairs, Anthony lashed out. He jumped back onto the first guard, kicking the second in the chest hard enough to knock him down. Then, he launched himself up, headbutting the first guard on the nose. Now free from the two guards, he rammed into the door, rolling onto the landing. He struggled to his feet, facing down the first guard who followed him in.

“You’re only making this more difficult for yourself. Stop now, or you will really regret it.” They warned, one hand resting on their taser.

Anthony smirked at the guard, and lifted his leg, kicking them in the stomach. The guard grabbed his leg, trapping him. Then, they grabbed his shirt. They dragged him over to the top of the stairs and threw him down. His head connected with the steps and he was knocked unconscious.

The guard took a moment to catch their breath, hands on their hips. They glanced up onto the next level, sighing softly. “Sorry you had to see that, kids. My bad.”

Lincoln peaked around the corner, smiling bashfully at the guard. “It’s fine, he assaulted you.” He assured them, standing up from his crouched position. “I’m just gonna go. You can do you job.” He turned and helped Octavia stand. 

“We still on for the roof?” Octavia asked, a bright smile plastered on her face. She was slightly breathless, the possibility of getting to make out with her crush stealing her breath.

“Of course.” Lincoln replied, smiling softly at the younger girl. “Are you still okay with it?” He asked, pressed a gently kiss to the back of her hand.

Octavia nodded, she felt like if she opened her mouth, the butterflies fluttering around in her stomach would all fly out.

“Good.” Lincoln whispered, he gently grasped Octavia’s hand and led her up the stairs. He made sure not to go too fast, he would hate to accidentally be pulling her along. He noted how she stumbled several times, but hastily regained her footing.

_ This is happening this is happening. Ho boy. I can’t believe this, I’m going on the roof to make out with the best-looking tribute there is! Praise the Lord Jesus! Wait, why did I say that? I’m not religious…. Meh, I’ll just put it down to nerves. Do those kinds of things happen when you’re nervous? _

During Octavia’s rambling inner monologue, Lincoln had managed to safely escort her up the stairs and in front of the door, without anyone falling on their ass or face. A feat on its own really.

“Are you ready?” Lincoln asked, breaking Octavia free from her inner monologue. He didn’t care for how breathless he sounded, but how could he be to blame? Her beauty was breathtaking.

Octavia winced at the sudden dryness of her mouth and throat, she really should have had that glass of water she had been offered before she followed Lincoln out of the party. She took a deep breath, before she smiled. Lincoln’s heart may have melted at the sight of her gorgeous smile, and the way her eyes lit up oh so beautifully. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

“Great.” Lincoln nearly whispered, he dropped Octavia’s hand and reached for the door handle. He paused for a moment, searching her face for any signs of discomfort or wanting to leave, he found none. He twisted the handle, gesturing for Octavia to step onto the roof first.

Hearing her gasp quietly, he stepped out behind her, hand settling on the small of her back. His eyes grew wide in amazement as he took in the scene.

A simple wooden frame had been set up in a large square. Lights were carefully twisted around the wood, a few hanging free. On the ground a few blankets were laid out, several pillows scattered around. A bouquet of flowers was lying in the middle of the pillows, two necklace chains beside it, a tiny note was half tucked under the edge of one of the blankets. There was a box of assorted foods and a bucket full of ice with a flask filled with a beverage of some kind.

“Do you like it?” Lincoln asked, carefully stepping around Octavia and towards the note. He bent down and picked it up, chuckling at the rather fancy handwriting.

**_‘Is this fancy enough for you? Granted, I can’t take all the credit. Got some help from a few friends. Hope your girl enjoys all this. Took me about two hours and a billion tries to get that goddamn frame up, my hands are shredded now. Ended up having to get even more help. You love birds have complete privacy, cameras are down. Use that information as you will. Oh and no one is coming up those stairs_ **

**_-M_ **

**_P.S. The drink is pretty good. Raspberries and other exotic fruits mixed together with some coke added in. Tastes fucking amazing. Non-alcoholic too.’_ **

“I-I love it…. It’s amazing.” Octavia whispered, her voice filled with awe. “I can’t believe you did this all… for me. Thank you.” Tears were threatening to spill from her eyes, she wasn’t used to this kind of thing happening to her.

“Hey, don’t cry. Please don’t.” Lincoln asked, his voice a soft whisper. “You deserve the world, and I will happily give it to you.” He dropped the note and walked quickly over to her. “No matter how long it takes.” He promised, he leaned down to press a soft kiss to her lips, only to pause a centimetre before their lips would connect. “Do you want this?” He asked, his warm breath ghosting over Octavia’s lips. “Do you want me to kiss you?”

Octavia’s eyes had closed as he leaned down to kiss her, but now they were open once more, dark with desire. She licked her lips, before she lunged upwards, claiming his lips with her own. Her arms went up around his neck, as his hands settled on her hips. Briefly she broke the heated kiss, looking her love in the eye. “Of course.”

Lincoln reconnected their lips, gently turning them so that his back would rest against the wall. His hands moved from her hips to the back of her thighs, he squeezed the soft flesh, drawing an eager moan from Octavia. He lifted her up suddenly, her legs automatically wrapping around his hips. 

He broke the kiss once more, planting little kisses all along her jaw and trailing down her neck. He found a spot that made her fingers dig into his shoulders, and her legs tighten around him. Delighted with his little discovery, he playfully nipped there, drawing a moan of surprise from her. He licked and sucked there until she grew impatient before he continued his path. Leaving his mark as he went.

“Do you trust me?” Lincoln asked, hastily retracing his path back to Octavia’s hungry lips.

“Yes, a thousand times yes.” Octavia moaned, rolling her head back. Her back arched as Lincoln’s lips once again found her sensitive spot. A needy whine broke free from her throat as his lips detached themselves from her neck  _ again _ . “Why do you keep stopping?” She groaned, glaring down at Lincoln.

He chuckled, carefully leaning back from her. “Because,” he pressed a gentle kiss to her jaw, “I love seeing you moan for me.”

A breathless  _ “fuck” _ fell from Octavia’s lips as her eyes darkened impossibly more, her fingers squeezing Lincoln’s shoulders. She raised a hand, tracing her fingers along his jaw. Smirking, she roughly cupped his jaw, dragging him in for a passionate rough kiss. 

Lincoln moaned into the kiss, gently setting Octavia down on the ground. His mind was running wild as Octavia’s hands dragged their way up his chest. He didn’t notice the desperate whimper that escaped his lips as Octavia pushed him away.

“Take off your damn clothes.” Octavia whispered, against his lips. She turned away, sauntering towards the blankets, taking off her jacket and letting it drop to the ground as she went. It was as she was reaching for the hem of her top, that Lincoln ripped of his unbuttoned shirt, his t-shirt soon following.

“Like what you see?” He asked, not failing to notice how Octavia was drooling over his abs. Even he had to admit, they were  _ incredibly _ drool worthy.

“Get your ass over here.” She nearly growled, eagerly licking her lips. “Before I rip all your clothes off.”

As the two lovers lay down on the blankets, Octavia immediately straddling Lincoln’s hips, only one thought was running through Lincoln’s mind.

_ He was falling, fast. He could only hope that Octavia felt the same way. And that she was waiting with a net for when he finally hits the ground. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey lovelies!  
> So, Phoenix (DeathShapeshifter) already has a tentative descision on who's going to win, but they still want your input! If someone gets a whole bunch of votes for winning, they might put them in the final two! So, please help them out.   
> Anyway, they have a [tumblr](https://thedeathshapeshifter.tumblr.com/) that you should all go check out!
> 
> Also, Phoenix got into an accident recently, so send them all your good thoughts!


	11. Head In the Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tributes must refocus on training the night after the party- just in time for their individual sessions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, y'all. It's me again! Death_Shapeshifter is, I am pleased to report, on the mend, but their writing has mostly been taking place in notebooks and so (being that I am on summer break) I offered to help them out a bit. So, the next few chapters will be written by me.
> 
> I'm not completely satisfied with this chapter (I wrote it mostly in the airport while waiting for my flight to Rome) but c'est la vie, at least it's done. Are there any characters you would like to see more of in the next few chapters? If so, let me know and I'll see what I can do. On that note, Death_Shapeshifter already has a pretty good idea of where this thing is going but they still welcome your input! 
> 
> Hope you lovelies enjoy.

Planning a party for the night before the individual sessions was probably, in retrospect, a bad idea. Although Echo hadn't had as much to drink as many of her fellow tributes, the long night had still taken its toll on her. As she was sitting beside the boy from District Three, Monty, waiting for Roan to finish up with his evaluation, she fought against the urge to bury her head in her lap, and try to catch a few moments of sleep. She couldn't do that, though, not with everyone who was nearby who would notice. 

Echo blinked rapidly, trying desperately not to just give into the temptation to let her eyelids flutter closed. 

When, at long last, the voice called her name, Echo leapt out of her seat and made for the door, which had opened to admit her as soon as the voice had spoken. She cracked her muscles one by one, flipped her hair up into a high ponytail, and strutted into the room in a way that she hoped conveyed to the other tributes that she was in no way nervous about what her score would be. 

The door shut, trapping Echo alone in the room with the Gamemakers who would be judging her.

"Miss Teles," said the head Gamemaker, whose name she hadn't bothered to waste the brain space remembering. "You have ten minutes to present your chosen skill. Your time begins now."

Echo tightened her ponytail and made for the swords, which she had been using during most of her training time, and the bows, which had occupied the rest. Once she felt the cold steel in her hand, and the quiver of arrows at her back, all the exhaustion melted away from her brain. Sword in one hand, she hacked at the dummies, tucking the blade under her arm for the brief second it took her to send an arrow flying into the forehead of a dummy all the way across the room. 

When her ten minutes were up, Echo, covered in sweat but feeling far better than she had eleven minutes ago, nodded at the Gamemakers when they thanked her, and then exited through a different door which opened for her, searching for the elevator to go find Roan. She reached their floor after only a few seconds, and when the elevator doors opened for her, she used a rag to wipe the sweat from her forehead and underarms before going to her room to change. 

Their mentors weren't there-presumably out with their fellow victors enjoying the pleasures of the Capitol- and so the only people there were several avoxes, and so when Echo had stripped out of her training uniform and into a tank top and some loose pants, she had no qualms about making her way to the fridge and popping several pieces of chocolate into her mouth. 

"You aren't gonna share?" 

The voice behind her made her jump, and she turned and threw the chocolate wrapper at Roan, smug smile showing that he was proud of having startled her. 

"Jesus fuck, Roan. Get your own damn chocolate!" 

"Sorry, Eks. No can do." And suddenly he was crossing the room, snatching the remainder of the forbidden treat from her hands and popping it into his mouth, holding what little remained high above his head to prevent her from reaching it.

"Fuck you!" 

She jumped on his back, grabbing wildly for the delicious bar of chocolate, only to have him bring it down to his mouth and swallow before she could pry it from his fingers. 

There was no point in trying to get it back now, so Echo jumped down off of Roan, punching him in the shoulder. 

A shoulder which was surprisingly tense.

"Damn," she said, tone becoming softer. "Ro, they should really get you to a masseuse or something."

 _Something_ flashed across Roan's face, but Echo couldn't quite tell what it was until Roan suddenly flopped down onto the floor and buried his face in one of his giant hands. She stood and stared for a moment before dropping down beside him. 

"Ro," she said, softer this time. "What's wrong?"

He hesitated for a moment, clearly wondering if he should tell her, his competition, but the simple desire to tell the only person who might possibly understand what was going through his head won out. 

"What if I can't do it?"

She knew what he meant, but she asked him anyway.

"My training score. What if it isn't good enough to get sponsors? What then?"

Instead of answering with the truth- she  _didn't know-_ Echo put a hand on Roan's shoulder and rubbed until she felt the tension loosen. 

* * *

 

When the voice called her name, Luna briefly debated just not entering the room where she was expected to show off her combat knowledge to the Gamemakers. But refusing to do so would undoubtedly bring down a large amount of peacekeepers on her, which was something that she would really rather avoid, and so Luna reluctantly rose from her chair and made her way towards the open door. 

The glittering racks of weapons tried to beckon her as she walked through to the center of the room, but Luna ignored their every call, as well as the Gamemakers' instructions, and sat down in the middle of the floor. 

She crossed her legs and, tuning out the Gamemakers' repeated calls of her name, began to meditate. 

Normally meditation worked for Luna in clearing her mind of the thoughts which normally plagued her every time she closed her eyes, but today it was seeming to have quite the opposite effect. 

Luna's nightmares, or in this case visions, typically featured her brother on the ground in front of her. This was not the case today. When her eyes closed, instead of one broken and bloody body, Luna saw twenty three. She could only recognize the bodies on the top of the pile.

One was Riley, but just barely. The entire back of his head had been torn open, and a blade that Luna somehow knew was her own was sticking out of his brain. 

Another was the girl she had met at training, Raven Reyes. The one with the explosive. An explosive which seemed to have worked all too well. Raven was missing a leg, and the other one was half gone. The entire left half of her body seemed to have been torn apart. There was no part of her body which was truly recognizable, yet somehow Luna  _knew_ it was her. And, feeling something in her hand, Luna looked down to find that her vision self was holding what could only be the detonator. 

Before she could try and identify the other two bodies on the top of the pile, Luna gasped and yanked her eyes open, pulling herself away from the terrifying vision. 

The Gamemakers looked at her, and she realized that she must have been screaming. Luna clenched her fists, more determined than ever to lose the Games and not allow the nightmare to play out for real.

* * *

 

Clarke wasn't sure how exactly she was supposed to "present her chosen skill" to the Gamemakers, considering that said chosen skill did not involve a weapon. How on  _Earth_ could one manage to heal themselves to demonstrate their healing abilities when they were not injured?

So, she supposed, she was just going to have to wing it.

Clarke scanned the room, and her eyes landed on the rope. 

 _Well,_ she shrugged,  _it's as good as anything else._

Grabbing a length from the wall, Clarke felt the Gamemakers beginning to lose interest in her. She decided that she would regain their attention nearer to the end of her session, and so she let them prattle on about whatever worthless gossip had filled the mags in the Capitol this week while she dragged one of the dummies from the wall over to where she had left the rope, snagging an arrow as she went. 

Combining the rope and the arrow, Clarke twisted them up around the dummy's leg into a passable tourniquet. Then, she kicked over a cart of weights, making a noise that no Gamemaker with functioning ears could possibly ignore. 

And, sure enough, they didn't. Every single pair of eyes in the room was suddenly focused on Clarke. Not knowing what else to do, she gestured towards the dummy, hoping to spot some sort of sign, of approval or at least recognition, from the Gamemakers. They didn't deliver, and for the rest of her ten minutes, Clarke grabbed one of the swords and hit the tourniquited dummy, burying the blade in its shoulder rather than chopping off the limbs. 

When they let her go, Clarke felt a twinge of disappointment as she hit the elevator button for floor eight. She tapped her foot, irrationally impatient for the thirty seconds it took her to reach her floor. When the elevator arrived, Wells was waiting for her right inside the door. 

"So," he asked, almost like an eager puppy, "how did it go?" 

She marched directly past him, ignoring the sad look which appeared on his face, and went to her room to cry. 

* * *

 

Octavia tapped her feet anxiously as she sat on the couch between Bellamy and Indra. Her mind kept drifting back and forth between her night with Lincoln and her individual session with the Gamemakers. Not only had she been the last one to go, therefore ensuring that the Gamemakers were paying practically no attention whatsoever to her, but her mind had also been on Lincoln instead of on her blades. 

She had done her best, forcing the Gamemakers to look up at her several times by making loud noises as she twirled her swords. She had thought she'd done a rather good job at the time, but now that it was almost time for the scores to be announced, she was starting to have doubts. 

The capitol emblem flashed on the screen, and then there was Caesar Flickerman explaining how the scores worked- as if anyone didn't know- and then there was Aden Woods, the first tribute, glancing at them.

"Aden Woods, with a score of eight."

Not great, for a Career, but not bad, for a twelve year old. 

"Lexa Woods, with a score of ten." 

Unsurprising.

"Echo Teles, with a score of ten."

"Roan Azgeda, with a score of ten."

Also monumentally unsurprising. Octavia crossed her arms, getting nervous about how dangerous they would be in the Arena. 

"Monty Green, with a score of six."

"Raven Reyes, with a score of seven."

"Riley Sullivan, with a score of four."

"Luna Flokru, with a score of one."

Now District Four- that made all of them sit up in shock. No tribute from a Career district had ever scored this low. Actually, Octavia wasn't sure if any tribute had ever gotten a one before. Suddenly, Lexa, Roan and Echo seemed a little less frightening, now that their pack would be a few members short.

John Murphy and Zoe Monroe both scored fives, while Jasper Jordan received a six, and Maya Vie a four. 

Octavia clenched her fists when Lincoln's picture appeared on the screen. 

" _Please,"_ she whispered, quietly enough for Bellamy and Indra not to hear.

"Lincoln Trikru, with a score of nine." 

A smile lit up Octavia's face, and it felt like a weight had been lifted from one of her shoulders. Now, all she had to worry about it were herself and Bellamy.

"Ontari Fish, with a score of nine."

"Wells Jaha, with a score of six."

"Clarke Griffin, with a score of six."

"Ilian Trishanakru, with a score of seven."

"Emori d'Oliviera, with a score of five."

"Nathan Miller, with a score of seven."

"Harper McIntyre, with a score of six."

"Finn Collins, with a score of six."

"Charlotte Vidovic, with a score of five."

As Charlotte's face disappeared from the screen and Bellamy's took its place, Octavia slipped her hand into her brother's. Bellamy squeezed it back.

"Bellamy Blake, with a score of eight."

Kane clapped Bellamy on the shoulder, smiling proudly.

"Wonderful job, Bellamy. That is a competitive score. If you nail your interview, I should have no problem getting you sponsors."

The excitement about Bellamy's good score died down as Octavia's face replaced his on the screen. 

"And finally, Octavia Blake, with a score of nine."

Indra, usually so composed and calm, wrapped an arm around Octavia's shoulder and yelled in excitement. 

"Wonderful job, Octavia! Wonderful!"

Bellamy wrapped her up in a hug and Kane pounded her on the shoulder as he had done Bellamy. Octavia allowed herself to bask in the relief buzzing in her veins as she celebrated with her team, unaware that, a few floors below, Lincoln was also smiling proudly at the television. 


	12. What's Your Angle?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tributes get one day to work with their mentors before the interviews. How will they spend it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You will notice that this chapter is about half Lexa, and then half everyone else. I thought of a whole bunch of things that I could say about her and her relationships with Anya, Aden and Clarke, and I couldn't think of quite as much to say about the others. Sorry. I hope that it's okay, even though I'm not quite satisfied with it.

Lexa’s training score hadn’t satisfied Anya. That much was clear. Yes, her mentor had nodded her head and given Lexa a smile, but it hadn’t quite reached her eyes. The swell of pride in Lexa’s chest at getting a top score melted away to be replaced with shame and confusion. She had tried to catch the older woman and ask her about it before they’d headed to bed, but Anya had left the room right after Octavia Blake’s score was announced, and Lexa’d heard her door shutting and locking with a finality that could only mean that Anya did  _ not  _ want to be disturbed. 

So Lexa had gone to bed with Anya’s forced smile lingering in her mind, and had barely slept a wink.

The next day was the day granted to mentors to coach their tributes with regard to the interviews, and Lexa was determined to get everything out of Anya that she could. The two had made good use of the evenings and train ride to talk strategy for the Games, but they’d barely mentioned the interviews, and since Lexa would be going first it was especially important for her to get it right. 

Lexa woke to find that Anya had slipped a note under her door telling the tribute to meet her in the den by 10:30. Looking at the clock after she stepped out of the shower, Lexa realized that she still had a whole hour to kill before she was supposed to meet her mentor, and so she decided that she would go and look for Aden. 

It took her barely two minutes to find her cousin, lingering at the breakfast table and digging into what she was sure was at least his third muffin of the morning. When he heard her footsteps, Aden jerked his head up, guarding his food guiltily. 

“Woah, A,” she said, faking a scandalized look. “Does Titus know that you’re eating that?” 

The rules governing food intake for Career tributes were rather strict, and while Lexa had had 6 years in training to get used to them, Aden hadn’t.

“No! Please don’t tell him, Lex! He’d kill me!”

Lexa laughed. “Nah, he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t have to. Because,” she said, imitating Aden’s mentor. “One of the others certainly will! Oh, Aden, woe is thee, because thou wilt never be able to fight with all the extra fat from your  _ one extra muffin! _ ” 

Aden giggled, causing Lexa’s smile to widen.

“Speaking of Titus, when are you meeting up with him to talk about the interviews?”

“In,” Aden looked up from his muffin to check the clock on the wall. “Five minutes! Shit!” 

He shoveled the rest of his muffin into his mouth and bolted from the room, tossing a muffled “bye, Lex!” over his shoulder as he went. 

That left Lexa with only… 47 minutes to kill. 

Finding nothing interesting to do on her floor, she decided to take the elevator up and down. Who knew, maybe she’d run into a peacekeeper who’d tell her to get to her assigned floor and make her morning a bit more interesting. 

When she entered the elevator, she didn’t find any peacekeepers. She did, however, find someone already there.

A blonde someone. A blonde someone from District 8. A very pretty blonde someone from District 8. 

She could feel her heart start beating in the familiar nervous pattern that it hadn’t beat since Costia. Or, more accurately, since she first saw Clarke Griffin on her screen a few days ago. 

“Hey,” said the other, giving Lexa a nod.

“Hey,” Lexa replied. Neither of them said anything more until they’d passed the 9th floor.

“What are you doing here?”

“Same as you, I guess. Keeping myself busy until my mentor is ready for me.”

The silence that fell after that couldn’t have been described in any other way except painfully awkward. Lexa was the one to finally break it. 

“So, Clarke, what is your mentor like?”

The girls spent the next half-hour riding up and down in the elevator, talking about anything and everything that came to mind. Once they got past the initial awkwardness, Lexa found that Clarke was very easy to talk to- far easier than Echo, who (other than Anya) had been Lexa’s main female company for the past week. Right as the elevator was about to drop Lexa off on her floor, Clarke grabbed her arm and turned her back around so that they were facing each other. 

“Lexa,” she asked. “Why are you even bothering talking to me?”

Trying to ignore the fireworks which seemed to be coming from the exact spot on her forearm where Clarke’s palm connected their skin, Lexa gave her answer. 

“Because, Clarke… I guess I just want to.”

“But why? You’re a Career, and I’m… not. I thought you people only associated with each other. The rest of us are beneath you, aren’t we?”

Lexa bristled at the assumption Clarke was making, but tried to answer.

“I want to talk to you, Clarke Griffin, because you fascinate me. You interest me more than any of those others. And, you are not beneath me.” 

Clarke let go of Lexa’s arm and let her exit the elevator, but not before giving her an apologetic smile, one which brought an even bigger one to the District One girl’s face.

The elevator shut behind her, and Lexa walked into the den to find Anya waiting for her. 

“Five minutes early. Wonderful, Lexa.”

Normally, Lexa wouldn’t be anywhere close to nervous or on edge with Anya- the older woman had been her mentor unofficially for six years. But with Anya’s disappointment last night, Lexa was, for lack of a better word, nervous. 

“So, Lexa,” said Anya. “What do you know about the interviews?” 

Now, Lexa had not been expecting that. Before now, Anya had been telling her what to do, and how to do it. She barely ever asked Lexa any questions at all, and Lexa was almost certain that this one was a trick. 

“They’re… important?” 

Lexa could feel Anya’s eye roll in her voice when she spoke.

“Yes, Lexa,  _ they’re important.  _ They’re very important. Why are they important, Lexa?” 

Lexa bit her lip, worrying it with her teeth while she tried to come up with the answer that would satisfy Anya. 

“Interviews show your personality to the crowd, and if they like you then they’re more likely to sponsor you.”

Anya nodded. “I’m sorry, Lexa. Normally, we’d have taught you all of this before you even volunteered. But, with the Quell, we thought that there was no way…”

That made sense. Anya smiled when Lexa nodded in understanding. 

“Lexa, normally we would have spent days and days figuring out how you would play this interview. You would have known exactly what you were doing before we even left the district. But, we don’t have days and days. We have one day. Which is why,”

Anya grimaced, as if the words were hurting her. 

“I am going to leave your interview angle largely up to you. However,” she added. “I strongly suggest that you choose one angle, and stick to it. Don’t suddenly go from brutal to sugary. It just confuses people. But above all, no matter what angle you go for, the old principle still applies.  _ Show strength. _ ” 

Lexa nodded. 

“Now,” said Anya, pulling out a deck of notecards. “We’re going to practice.”

Twirling a strand of hair around her finger, nervous, Lexa interrupted Anya before she could start reading the first question. “Actually, Anya? Can we talk for a minute?”

Anya cocked an eyebrow, as if giving Lexa permission to continue on. 

“You.. You didn’t seem to be… What was wrong with my training score?”

Her mentor bit her lip, then tapped her feet and wrung her hands. She seemed to be internally debating something, and when she finally made a decision she seemed to wilt, sinking back into the couch cushions and beckoning Lexa to sit beside her rather than across from her. 

“Nothing was wrong with your training score, Lexa. It’s just… A ten is perfectly respectable. But tributes have lost the Games with tens. I’ve mentored tributes who have lost the Games after getting tens. But every time someone has gotten an eleven, they have won the Games. So, I was… I was just hoping that... I can’t lose you too, Lexie.”

Anya hadn’t called Lexa  _ Lexie  _ for years, ever since she was twelve.The emotion in her mentor’s voice was raw, and if Lexa didn’t know any better she would have said that the emotionless, unshakable Anya was on the verge of tears. And that was scarier than the Games.

* * *

 

Raven was tapping her foot nervously as she waited inside her room. It was almost one in the afternoon, and still Sinclair had not come to fetch her. In boredom, she had already taken apart the alarm clock on the bedside table, obviously an older model since she remembered making one just like it before she even left school, and remade it into a speaker for the already-loud television, but after she had completed that project she had found herself with just about nothing to do.

Sure, there were books, but after scanning their spines Raven had quickly realized that they were all Capitol propaganda books, which didn’t interest her in the slightest. The same went for the television programs, which were airing old Hunger Games along with the regularly scheduled propaganda. Which was, obviously,  _ exactly  _ what Raven wanted to watch.  

What in Panem could Sinclair have to say to Monty that would take three hours? And how would that relate to Raven? Sinclair was, after all, technically Monty’s mentor, and was just taking her on because he wanted to. Where did that leave her compared to her district partner? What was happening?

Raven hated waiting. It was boring, especially with nothing to do but dissemble her new speakers and remake them back into the alarm clock that she had never used. 

But she hated not knowing what was going on even more. 

Just as she was about to storm out of her bedroom and demand to know what the hell was taking so long (or at least grab a bite to eat), the door swung open silently to reveal Monty, with an unreadable expression on his face that might have been shock, fear, nerves, or some combination of all of them.  

“Sinclair’s ready for you, Raven.” 

Raven hopped off her bed, sighing in relief and nodding at Monty as she rushed past him and out towards the den where Sinclair was waiting for her on the sofa, a pitcher of water and some snacks on the table beside him. 

He gestured towards the comfortable looking chair armchair across from him, still indented from where Monty had been sitting mere moments ago, but instead of sinking back into the cushions, Raven sat on the edge of it and fixed her eyes on her mentor. 

“Reyes,” he said. “Let’s talk about your interview.” 

When Raven interrupted him, she could barely believe herself. Here Sinclair was, trying to help her prepare for something was just as important as any training score, and she decided to blow some of their time together by trying to satisfy her petty jealousy. But Sinclair didn’t look surprised at all when she asked him about Monty. 

“Reyes.” He took a breath, as if trying to figure out exactly what he was going to say to both be honest and pacify her. “Reyes, I care about you. I care about you so damn much, and I think that you have a hell of a good chance of winning. Probably a better chance of winning than Monty does, going by what I know about the both of you. But I also care about Monty, and I am going to give him the best advice that I possibly can, because I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if he died because I didn’t do the best possible job I could mentoring him. Do you understand me?”

Raven nodded quickly, and Sinclair gave her a warm smile. 

“Now, let’s talk about your interview. I know that you’re the smartest damned tribute here, and I’m sure that you must know that, but I don’t want you to let  _ them _ know that.” 

The afternoon passed in a blur of practice interviews, and by the time Raven fell into her chair for dinner that night, she could have answered any question that Caesar Flickerman posed her in her sleep.

* * *

 

Nia and Ontari had started work on her interview strategy as early as they could- before the sun had even risen above the mountains which surrounded the Capitol, the two women were up and alert and talking about how Ontari was going to outdo the others. Breakfast had been taken in the den, Ontari eating while Nia asked her questions and Nia eating while Ontari answered those questions. 

Ontari’s interview angle was predictable to anyone who knew her, but would still be shocking to anyone who remembered that she came from District 7, and not from 1, 2 or 4. And oh, Ontari wanted to shock them. There was nothing that she would rather do, other than get into the arena and start her Games.

Nia had warned her that Echo, Roan, and possibly even Lexa, would also be playing up this angle. Three tributes, not including her, who would be playing up their sheer brutality in order to gain sponsors and support. So, Ontari had to do it  _ better  _ if she wanted to take the sponsors away from those three tributes. And she was sure as hell planning to do it better. Because she was going to be more brutal and ruthless than the rest of them.

“And if Flickerman asks you if you have any reservations about killing someone?”

“I tell him that I’ll kill anyone who stands in my way of winning the Games.”

Nia nodded, pleased. “So, Ontari, you said that you were willing to kill anyone who would stand in your way of winning the Games. You know, don't you, that we have two twelve year olds in the arena this year. Does this statement extend to killing children?”

When Ontari grinned, she purposefully pulled her lips back to reveal her straight, white teeth. When she won the Games, she was going to have to remember to get them filed into points like that one woman from District 2. Now that was dedication of the type Ontari was going for.  

“Oh, that would not”- she made sure to snarl around the word  _ not-  _ “be a problem.”

Nia’s face split into a grin as she nodded proudly. The grin stretched across her entire face, and Ontari got the feeling that Nia would have been thrilled to jump back into the arena alongside her tribute.  

“Wonderful, Ontari. Just perfect!”

Ontari smiled as she and Nia continued practicing for her interview, knowing that everything she said in her interview would be the truth.

* * *

 

Miller was starting to get extremely bored with practicing for his interview. Yes, he knew that it was extremely important, but he and Jackson had been at it for hours now without so much as a five minute break or a snack. And Jackson was showing no signs of slowing down, much less stopping. 

They had run through hundreds of practice questions, but they still hadn’t found a good angle for Miller to play. It felt as if they had tried everything, some things multiple times, and none of them had worked, and the younger man was starting to think that he should just wing it. 

Jackson, obviously, did not agree, and Jackson called the shots. So on they went. 

“Now, Mr. Miller, tell me about the people waiting for you at home. Is there anyone _special_ waiting for you?” asked Jackson, obviously trying (and failing) to imitate Caesar Flickerman and lift Miller’s spirits about this whole process. Miller had just started telling Jackson about his father when suddenly… he had it!

And he let Jackson know that he had it by standing up in the middle of his monologue about how wonderful David Miller was, and how much he hoped to get home to him.

“I've got it! I’ve got an angle, Jackson!” 

Jackson jumped up too, bouncing on the balls of his feet, and gave Miller an excited grin. “That’s wonderful, Nathan! What is it?”

“Bryan! I can tell Caesar that I had a fight with my boyfriend before getting Reaped, and that I want to win so I can go home and make it up to him!” 

Jackson nodded, considering Miller’s idea. “That’s… not bad, actually. If you play it up, it should pull on the crowd’s heartstrings, and make them want to help you get home so that you can give your man a happy ending!”

But, even as Jackson went on about all the potential that Miller’s interview angle had, should the tribute do it correctly and better than the others who might try the same thing, Miller couldn’t help but notice that the smile had faded off of his mentor’s face a bit, and that Jackson wouldn’t look him in the eye anymore. 

By the time they had run through all the possible interview questions for the third time, the sun was beginning to set, and Miller was getting more and more worried. Every time Miller said the word  _ Bryan,  _ Jackson seemed to sink further and further back into the couch, and Miller had no idea why. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think of this chapter, and let me know if there's anyone you want to see more of in the next few chapters!

**Author's Note:**

> So, I'm having some trouble deciding who's going to win this shit. So... I'm asking all of you, aka whoever bothers to read this. It would be awesome if you could tell me, in the comments, who you think should win the 100 Hunger Games. Please only vote for characters who are canonically living as of the season 4 finale. If you need a reminder (STOP READING NOW IF YOU ARE NOT CAUGHT UP) that is: Clarke, Bellamy, Raven, Octavia, Murphy, Emori, Monty, Harper, Echo and Miller.


End file.
